Proof by Contradiction
by summer35
Summary: We live in a darkness of our own making, blind to a habitant world all but unseen by us. A world of beings imaginable to us only as flights of fancy. Who are these beings we dare to imagine but fear to accept?  Inspired by Steig Larrson's GwaDT. E/B. OOC
1. Chapter 1

**Proof by Contradiction(_1_)**

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Disclaimer: All characters belong to SMeyer.

Thanks to Maylin (dihenydd) who betas and geeks out with me and Lambcullen (Lambiexx) who already pre-read the next chapters.

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_**"We live in a darkness of our own making... blind to a habitant world all but unseen by us. A world of beings imaginable to us only as flights of fancy. Who are these beings we dare to imagine but fear to accept? If they know our secrets, why can't we know theirs?" (2)**_**  
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On the day she disappears...

The sky is filled with balloons. Hundreds of them. Blue, white, red. Fluttering towards the horizon, dotting her vision. The street is packed with people, smiles and laughter fill the air. She's a petite, elegant, pretty girl, almost seventeen, and amidst the exuberant crowd, she holds the hand of a young boy.

_Come on. _The boy giggles and his giggles are of the lightest, most carefree kind. He wants to see the clowns. His hair flutters in the wind as his eyes urge her. His eyes are deep green, as green as the emeralds her father had gifted her with on her last birthday.

She nods and he smiles, so full of innocent joy and wonder that her heart lifts a little. His small hand clutches hers and she lets him pull her through the crowd.

Nobody knew. She never told a soul what happened that day when she'd taken the little boy for a walk and saw...them. They were different from him, different from the others she knew. Nobody knew what happened even later.

_We're leaving...._Two words that had broken her heart.

_I don't want you to come with me._

_You don't want me? _

_I'll always love you… in a way. But I'm tired of pretending to be something I'm not._

_Don't do this. _

_You're no good for me. This will be the last time you'll see me. _

_It will be as if I'd never existed. _

The words pierce her heart, even months later, but she smiles. She smiles at the little boy who holds her hand in absolute trust. She smiles at her friends, her classmates, family, neighbors. She smiles at her father who watches her like a hawk, waiting for that misstep, that falter that could send her over the abyss. She smiles when she's tired, when she's bored, when she feels half dead and when the world spins and loses color and meaning. Her smile falters only when she's alone, when she sits in her room, staring at nothing, asking herself over and over: What did I do wrong?

Some days when she can't bear it, she swings by the little boy's house, sits inside the little boy's kitchen and listens to the little boy regale his mother with stories of his day. There were days, before he left, that she'd take the little boy outside and she'd hold one little hand while he took the other and they'd swing the little boy between them.

She didn't tell the little boy's mother but she understood. They're not exactly friends, the young girl and the little boy's mother. More like kindred spirits. Both had gone through the same pain of having their hearts stomped on, their very existence questioned. Both draw strength from a child's innocent precocity.

Time passes, even when it seems impossible. Her father raised her to be a survivor so she picks up the pieces of her broken life. She trains herself to forget his voice, his touch, even his face. She knows that he was lying when he told her he didn't love her anymore, that he's not good for her and she for him. She knows, but she lies to herself to make it a little easier for him. Easier for him to leave her if he truly believes she hates him, easier for them both if she lets him think he was giving her a clean break.

A clean break, like the fracture on her collarbone that day when one of them had attacked her. She'd almost forgotten. Almost.

Because when she hears a voice in the middle of almost a thousand revelers, it all comes back, flooding her ears, filling her senses.

Someone is calling her, whispering her name. Chills run across her skin, raising the fine hairs at the back of her neck and on her arms. The voice is almost the same but she knows better. She knows he's gone, there was no way he'd be coming back for her.

Her head jerks and the crowd swirls precariously around her.

_Who are you? _She catches fragments of voices, laughter. The whisperer is somewhere in the crowd, she's sure of it. A small group of children and adults, gathered around an ice cream cart, obstructs her view.

_Want some ice cream? _She asks the little boy.

_Yes! _He jumps to attention, almost clapping his hands, but his exuberance fails to slow the beat of her heart. Warm hands once again clutch hers and she lets him drag her to the ice cream cart.

_Do you want some? _

The little boy is gracious but she says no, thank you. She feels safer, enclosed in the bubble of ice cream eaters.

Just when she's starting to breathe easier, it's there again. Her name. Closer, clearer, like a gust of wind hitting chimes. She looks up and _flash!_ A flood of light from an anonymous camera captures the surprise in her eyes.

Blood drains from her face and she can feel her hands start to shake. No, it can't be, her mind screams. But it is because there he is, across the street, standing deathly, quietly still at the fringe of the crowd. Despite the overcast skies, he wears sunglasses.

She looks down at the little boy. He's smiling and giggling with the other children, pointing at something in the sky. She follows their gazes. Except for one or two, the balloons have long disappeared.

_Why don't we go and get your mom? She'd love to see the clowns and you guys can get your picture taken later._

Holding the boy's hand, she sticks to the crowd and avoids deserted spaces, trading polite hellos with people who felt pity for her, the poor, little rich girl. People she'd avoided for months when she'd tried to mend her heart.

They hadn't gone far when she sees the little boy's mother running towards them.

_Oh, thank God. _A warm, tight embrace encompasses them both.

_What happened?_

_It's the Crowley kid. He lost control of his van and ran over a girl. I think she goes to your school. _

_Who?_

_I don't know. They're still cutting her from the wreckage. Maybe it's best you go home. They're cancelling the parade. _

_All right. _She agrees immediately but inside she's panicking. The crowd is thinning around her and it's almost sundown. Most of the revelers will be going back to their homes and downtown for dinner.

_They're here. _The familiar bile rises up her throat and she laughs to herself. Who's she kidding? They've been here for a long, long time.

_I'll drop by tomorrow. _She tells the little boy instead, trying to keep the fear from her voice. He looks at her strangely. _We'll look at that collection you want me to see._

_Promise?_

_Promise._

_You're such a dear. _The boy's mother thanks her.

_No, thank you. _The young girl wants to say more but she stops herself. She walks away. From a distance, she turns to look back and the little boy gives her a little wave. She waves back and forces a smile, knowing she'll never see him again.

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**(1) **_Reductio ad absurdum_ (Proof by contradiction) -- In logic, proof by contradiction is a form of proof that establishes the truth or validity of a proposition by showing that the proposition being false would imply a contradiction. Since by the law of bivalence a proposition must be either true or false, and its falsity has been shown impossible, the proposition must be true.

**(2)** Agent Scully, X Files, Season 1


	2. The Real Chapter 1

**Proof by Contradiction(1)**

**Thanks again to Maylin (dihenydd) for the beta and Lambcullen (Lambiexx) for the preread.**

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The Real Chapter 1  
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Mike Newton inherited Newton Securities from his father five years ago. From a modest business, he's managed to build the company's reputation into one of the most reliable investigative firms in the lower Seattle area. A steady supply of contracts gives him a tidy annual profit and he shares it with his employees. Aside from the ten security personnel that he has on call for three 8-hour rotations, he keeps ten more in the company's modest two-storey brownstone – his secretary, two filers, an encoder, a runner, two paralegals and three investigators. Of the three, a young woman named Isabella Black stands out. She'd turned in her application straight from high school, just a year after he took over the company. His father had known her father for a time so he'd reluctantly put her on probation and had given her two months, secretly wishing her bad luck. But ever since the girl took a step inside his office, she'd done nothing but astonish him.

In the years that followed, not once did she turn in a mediocre report or botched a job. Instead, her investigations were almost in a class of their own. Her research was extensive, her reports scientifically precise. He really doesn't know how she does it but Black almost always manages to pry out the most hidden secrets. Her analytical skills are astounding. Several times a year, she surprises him with a particularly brilliant piece of work, solidifying the company's reliable reputation further. In return, he tries to cut her some slack, overlook her most glaring shortcomings and give her credit whenever it's due. When she asked to be exempted from the 9-5 routine, he relented. When she refused to divulge information about herself and her methods beyond what was absolutely necessary, he backed off. As long as she turns in her impeccable reports, he doesn't care where, and to an extent, how she does it.

Black's irregular schedule also solves another problem. Newton Securities maintains a conservative front to project a staid stability to their clients. Isabella Black fits into this image like a buffalo in a boat show. The girl, who's just a few inches over five feet, looks like an anorexic washout and has the manners of a sullen 12-year old. With numerous piercings on her face, ears and god knows where else, she comes across as a juvenile delinquent recently released from a rehab program, instead of as the company's most valuable researcher. The dark make-up doesn't help and the clothes she favors accentuate the visible markings on her skin – a series of ancient characters that creep from the back of her neck down to her shoulders, a vine that winds itself on her right arm, another partially hidden on her hip.

Once, he'd caught a glimpse of a mysterious tattoo on her bicep, when she was stretching her arms to get extra sheets of paper above the Xerox machine during one of the few times she'd actually came to the office to use something. He couldn't be quite sure what it was, except that it was a round crest and had what looked like flickering flames inside. On some nights when he couldn't sleep, Newton would find himself wondering about it and the partially hidden tattoo on her hip and he'd realize how much he'd like to see the markings, lay his hands over them, trace them with his fingers and maybe, just maybe, gain an insight into the girl herself. He'd shake himself out of his musings in guilty fear that his sleeping wife could hear what he was thinking. Isabella Black is an intriguing girl, no matter how much she messes with her looks and clothes. A strange but inexplicably attractive oddity that belongs in a world that is beyond his reach or understanding.

_If only she got rid of that hideous nose ring,_ Newton thinks to himself on a Monday morning as he watches said girl stride across the lobby and up the stairs to get to his office on the second floor. Blood prints were dripping on the shirt that enclosed her chest, with the words "Blow'em up" emblazoned across her breasts in bold, red letters. The small shirt fits her snugly and a sliver of pale, creamy skin flashes itself above her waist as she walks, giving him and the others tantalizing glimpses of the inkwork underneath. Her straight, raven hair that falls below her shoulders looks unwashed and uncombed, giving her the abandoned, waifish look that screams wild and dangerous at the same time.

He meets her in the corridor, as he always does. Black hates coming inside his office. Probably hates being trapped in a room with a person who has power over her, he tells himself. He knows it's not personal, he's read her file after all. She lost her parents early, bounced from one foster home to another. A family took her in when she was 14. For some reason, she not only stayed with them after she turned 18, she took their last name as her own. The presumably close and loving environment should have given her some stability. _Some sunshine..._but the girl is absolutely closemouthed and socially distant despite his and his other employees' efforts to draw her out. He consoles himself that her taciturn disposition is probably because she had her own share of trauma and not because she just plainly hates him and everyone else.

"You're late," he says, trying to keep the stress out of his voice. Several hours earlier, he'd found himself at the receiving end of a very rich but also very insistent client. "She's been waiting since 7am."

"Let her read my report, it's all there," the slim girl briskly hands him two thick binders from the large canvas bag she is carrying. "I need to be somewhere."

"You're not getting out of this one, Black."

She pauses to give him a look like he is a speck of shit on her boot, but he ignores it and walks into the small conference room next to his office. After a second, she follows and he breathes in relief. Newton usually handles the transfer of documents himself, as he makes it a point to study and analyze all the reports himself. It's very rare that a client wants to speak directly to one of his investigators. And he'd never had someone insist on speaking to Isabella Black.

"Here she is," Newton says with forced glee before Black catches sight of who is sitting in one of the chairs, "our best researcher."

He moves away from the girl's line of vision so she can see the coiffed woman sitting at the head of the long table and for a moment, Newton thinks a look of shocked hate passes on Isabella Black's normally sullen face.

"I appreciate your meeting me, Ms. Black," the woman stands up to offer her hand to the younger girl. "My name is Esme Cullen and it was my husband who commissioned the report."

The girl ignores the offered hand and walks to the other side of the table, forcing Esme Cullen to withdraw the gesture. She cocks one elegant eyebrow slightly but says nothing as she returns to her seat.

"Everything you want to know is there," Black gestures to the envelopes in Newton's hands, her tone laced with barely disguised impatience. "What do you want me here for?"

"I've waited for you for two hours, Ms. Black. You may as well humor me with what you know."

The girl's eyes flash under the piercings on her brow. That's twice now that she's been reminded of her tardiness.

"His life's pretty public," Black says dismissively. "But as you've not told me what exactly to look for, the report's 185 pages long. More than half of it is photocopies of articles and interviews he's done in the last eight years."

"I know the particulars were not very clear," the client answers, not at all thrown by the girl's rudeness, "but I would like to hear your report directly, if you don't mind."

Black throws her a look so hostile that Newton begins to ponder the wisdom of pressing her into the meeting. But the older woman holds her stare with mild detachment and after a while, Isabella Black backs down.

"Edward Masen Jr, 32, born 1978 in Forks, Washington," Black begins tonelessly, like she's reading from a book. "Edward Sr. left him and his mother, Elizabeth, when he was barely one year old after allegations of Mrs. Masen's infidelity. Mrs. Masen worked as a secretary to one of Forks' companies until little Edward was seven. Mother and son moved to New York sometime during summer that year. He went to Salem High, then to Yale on an anonymous, private scholarship, graduating with honors four years later. Joined Reporters without Borders and moved around the globe from 1997-2003 – Thailand, Pakistan, Afghanistan, Kazakhstan. Won two major awards for his work exposing corruption and anomalies involving civilian contractors in cahoots with private armies and Al Qaeda during the Afghan war. He came back to New York in 2004 to start up the Wall Street Review with his Yale colleague, Rosalie Hale. Are you going to eat that?"

The last sentence is addressed to Newton, who had a sandwich in front of him next to her binders. He hands it over reluctantly, inwardly cringing at what's going to happen next. The girl holds out her hand to get the sandwich and attacks it like she's been intentionally starved.

"Would you like something, Mrs. Cullen?" he asks, embarrassed for the girl's sake.

"Just coffee, please," she tells him, watching the girl eat without discomfort. "Continue when you're done, Ms. Black."

"You know the rest," she says after wolfing down the entire sandwich in a few large bites. "He had enough information on the dealings of Wall Street companies, especially ones who got fat contracts out of the war, to write an account on their bloody shenanigans in 2007. 'War Mafia' made it to the New York bestseller's list, was a commercial success, despite the staid prose and almost no publicity, before its release. He named names on the who's who of the Forbes List and their partners in the Senate. His research was exhaustive and meticulous."

The woman waves her hand, dismissing the information. The girl's right, she knows that Edward Masen is a hardnosed author and journalist, alternately venerated and scorned for his "left-wing" views and unapologetic stance against the evils of the empire. Everyone does.

"His finances?"

"I've enclosed his tax payment returns in the report, his annual income totals up to $150,000 after deductions. He's not poor, but he's not rich either. He keeps a swanky apartment in upper Manhattan, which he remodelled himself. A third of the Wall Street Review is his. He doesn't use a credit card, no loans either. He has a property in Forks, a small cabin he inherited from his mother that he hasn't used once. Leased it to an elderly couple who both passed away last year so it sits there now, rotting."

"Where does he stand after the trial?"

"His lawyers are regular sharks. After paying them, and the sum Aro Volturi extracted for damages, a total of $50, $65 thousand tops. Not a lot and considering he won't be eligible for work until after his sentence, pretty sobering for a man of his stature."

"So his incarceration will clean him out."

"Yes and no. He can still sell his shares in The Review or have his partners bail him out. His book is considered mandatory reading in several universities so he'll get royalty payments for some time. But he's not going to win the Journalist of the Year award any time soon and his editor-in-chief just kicked him out."

"He was fired?"

"Only temporarily. Just to silence the retards calling for his blood."

"Is he honest?"

"His honesty is his and his magazine's most valuable asset. Plus, he's exceptionally sharp. He fits, and even looks, the part of the intelligent crusader against the unscrupulous corporate expansion. He might hide half his face under that beard but it is a well known fact that he is charismatic, not to mention attractive. The news networks keep him either as a consultant or a commentator to speak for the left although he's never identified himself with a particular group – liberal, anarchist, left or otherwise. I suppose that will all change now."

"Does he have secrets?"

"By secrets, you mean things that are nobody's business but his own," Black answers, looking pointedly at the older woman. "He's never been married but he's had a string of love affairs and an even greater number of flings. He's a hit with women, they can't stay away from him, but he's always been discreet and careful. No children, no overtly scandalous dalliance or any embarrassment save, of course, the Volturi case."

"What of the Volturi case?"

"I didn't prepare a full report as it wasn't part of what was asked for but I did follow the trial. It was a bit strange seeing him so resigned, as if he'd known all along that his data was false and there was nothing he could do about it."

"Why do you say that?"

"Edward Masen's background suggests that he is a careful researcher and writer. I don't exactly know how the world of journalism goes but it was surprising how he could overlook something so patently false unless his sources were impeccable or he believed them impeccable at the time."

"What are you saying, exactly?"

"I can't be too sure but I think he was set up," Black turns to the other woman and for the first time, she appears mildly interested in the man whose life she's been digging up for weeks. "He must have been stepping on some really big toes and someone decided to throw him a red herring. Every private dick in his town knows how dirty Volturi is, it's just a matter of proving it. Masen genuinely thought he had the goods and only saw the fraud when it was too late. But that's complete speculation on my part."

"So if we, for example, decided to pursue his leads on the Volturi case, is there a chance of finding out how it collapsed?"

"I can't answer that. As I said, I didn't prepare a full report as it wasn't part of the assignment."

"But if we asked you to," Esme Cullen leans toward the girl, undaunted by her gruffness, "would you try?"

"It's not my place to accept assignments, I'm merely an employee of Newton Securities," she says flatly, giving the rehearsed answer. "Besides, I might not find anything."

"You're not answering my question."

"Sure," she answers after a slight pause, "if the assignment doesn't violate company policies."

Meaning no crime or anything illegal will be committed using the information she digs up. Despite ironclad nondisclosure agreements, it is her duty to report to Newton anything that is clearly against the law. Newton, in turn, is obliged to share that information with the police.

"A project that vast can be very expensive," Newton interjects. Digging up new dirt on a case that's already been closed takes up a lot of resources without guaranteed results.

"Then we'll set a limit," the older woman answers, "if nothing comes up, we'll consider it a done deal and let it go."

Black turns her eyes to her employer, who gives her a small nod.

"When do you want to have it?"

"How about we talk about the details later?" Esme Cullen answers with a smile. "For now, let's just get back to Edward Masen, shall we?"

"There's nothing more on his personal life as he has nothing to hide," Black continues in a more civil tone. "Except for his rather unusual relationship with his editor-in-chief."

"Ms. Hale?"

"Rosalie Hale, uptown girl, born to a Jewish mother and a rich liberal father. Hale and Masen met in Yale when he was a freshman and she a junior. They've had an on-off relationship since then."

"And that's unusual because?"

"Hale is married to Emmett McCarty, heir to the McCarty publishing house. The Hales and the McCartys are on the same social scale and go a long way back."

"So they're cuckolding him."

"Not exactly," the girl says, used to such quick and easy conclusions. "McCarty appears to know of the relationship. Apparently, the arrangement works for them. Hale splits her time between the two men. As I said, it's nobody's business but their own, consenting adults and all."

Esme Cullen gives the girl a piercing appraisal.

"And what do you think of Mr. Masen personally, Ms. Black?"

"I don't have a personal opinion on my subjects."

"But if you did?"

"If I did, I'd say Edward Masen is a dedicated man who lives by the rigid rules he sets for himself and values his and others' honest work above everything else."

"Even if it lands him in jail," Esme Cullen's voice drops to a murmur and from his position, Newton suddenly gets the feeling that the woman didn't ask for Black's presence to evaluate her report. Esme Cullen came to evaluate the girl herself.

"Some people do what needs to be done, regardless of the consequences."

"Some people do, Ms. Black," Cullen answers, her eyes sweeping the girl's face. "Some of them do."

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	3. hello hell

**Proof by Contradiction**

Disclaimer: Contains characters that belong to SMeyer and strong allusions to Stieg Larsson's characters.

This tale is a nod to the great Mr. Steig Larsson, author of the Millennium trilogy and is one of my favorite contemporary authors. This is not a crossover, though. For more info, please refer to the link in my profile.

Extra/mega/uber thanks and love to Maylin (dihenydd) and lambcullen (Lambiexx). Beta and prereader, respectively. You know why.

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Rosalie Hale walks briskly into the smart offices of the Wall Street Review. She strides past the small oval table they use for their conferences, past a small kitchenette and past the comfortable couch facing a massive flatscreen the entire staff use for video games and Superbowl games. Everyone agreed that they needed someplace to breathe, even inside the controlled chaos of a press room.

Past the couch are several desks, arranged neatly against the walls that lead to her office. Before she reaches the glass doors with the marks Rosalie Hale, Editor-in-Chief, she veers a little to the right and into a small enclosed space marked "Edward Masen, Senior Editor." The man in question is quietly putting various knickknacks in an open box but stops as soon as he looks up to icy blue eyes.

"As of this day, Edward Masen has been effectively terminated as Senior Editor to the Wall Street Review," Rosalie reads furiously from a sheet of paper in her hands. "Why did you release this statement without consulting me? That's my name at the bottom."

Edward glances at the paper, making out the heading in bold, capital letters announcing convicted journalist Edward Masen as leaving the Wall Street Review. He'd written the draft himself.

"You would've just prolonged the inevitable."

"Cut the self-pity, Edward. We both know someone's bound to punch us in the nose as we've run all our stories as we see fit. It's part of who we are and what we do."

"I know, but we can't attribute this mess to a mere case of bad judgment. I'm not only a reporter on this magazine, I also happen to be one of its publishers. I did the research, wrote the piece and published it under my name."

"Why are you doing this?" she walks around the desk. "We were in this together. It's my fault as much as yours that we got roped into that story."

"Yes, we did. And because of it, we're going to have to work very hard to keep our credibility afloat. That's not going to happen with me here."

"Then we'll run the entire story, with the parts that we left out."

"What's the point? We've been played well and good, Rose. All our informants disappeared. Without them, we can't prove a fucking thing."

"We could tell the court how and when the fraud started."

"And risk the identity of our original source? You can't seriously be suggesting that," he frowns at her.

"So we'll just let everyone think you're a sorry, lying loser and I'm a cold bitch who kicked you to the curb?"

"Yes," he answers simply. "The Volturi is going to beat us to a pulp. Even if we did lose, the trial brought investor's confidence to an all time low. They're going to go after us, big time."

"That's just it. We're going to slug it out with one of the largest conglomerates in the world and you're leaving the magazine, leaving me, high and dry because of some absurd notion of self-sacrifice."

"We'll all be sitting ducks if I stay," he answers. "Better for them to think that you fired me on ethical grounds. You can shore up some support from the unions, take the higher ground. They'll slow down as soon as they realize they'll be bludgeoning a woman with a proverbial baseball bat. Hard to hit a woman, a beautiful woman at that."

"The blonde airhead," she says bitterly. "You really think they'll go easy on me?"

"It's sad, I know, but stereotypes exist. And since when did we ever think of how others would think? It's what we know that matters. You can do this, Rose. For the Review's future. You have a better chance of riding this out without me rubbing my presence constantly in their faces."

Rosalie shakes her head, knowing Edward is right. She's played the bimbo card a few times before. Always expect to be underestimated, he'd told her once. That way you can enjoy the horror on your adversaries' faces when they realize what you really are capable of. The times when she'd pulled the stunt had brought her some of the most satisfying moments of her life. She'd had publishers, politicians, hell, even her own parents, weeping at her feet.

"I'm just worried about you, Edward. You didn't even fight it."

"They won, I lost."

"I still don't like it," she insists but resignation is already creeping into her voice. "If I really do fire you, where are you going to go?"

"To be honest, I need a break," he sighs, "The case, the trial, the entire circus has been exhausting. I need to go somewhere to think, get away from it all before they lock me up."

The thought of his sentence sobers them both.

"It's only for six months, right?"

"Four, if I get a reprieve for good behaviour," Edward answers. "It doesn't matter how long."

"It's the why," she looks at him in defeat. "Are you going to be all right?"

"I'll be fine."

"Care for some company?"

Edward looks at her, seeing her as one of the very few who know how his mind works. The Review had been their mutual creation, their lovechild, and they'd both worked themselves to the bone to start it up and keep it running. The idea had started at Yale, where they'd amused themselves by imagining running their own paper with the most clichéd mission statement. To print the truth and consequences be damned.

But Rosalie Hale is also one of his oldest and best friends. For years they were everything to each other before she grew tired of waiting for him as he gallivanted around the globe, chasing that intangible rush, that thrill that could only be experienced when one's life was on the line. He knew he was out of luck when his friend Emmett, the wily old fool, made his move for her and played his cards right. They'd fallen into bed like horny teenagers, then fallen in love. Their wedding had been one of his fondest memories, as he'd stood as the best man for them both. But he and Rosalie have always had a relationship, a dependency, which Emmett can't and hadn't even attempted to break. It was present no matter what they did – sitting around, arguing about something, going at each other's throats, talking, sipping coffee, making love. Sex had been a habit they'd fallen into accidentally when they were in college, something they'd done to amuse themselves, but they'd both been surprised that it endured through romantic entanglements they had with other people. He knows that those who know of their open relationship are put in an awkward position. They're both lucky that Emmett doesn't seem to mind, either because he's too wrapped up with himself or he just loves Rosalie unconditionally.

Someday, he knows he'll grow out of it. Someday, he'll find that level of trust and friendship with someone else to whom he will gladly commit himself to an exclusive relationship. He has a feeling that Rose is already ready to do so, judging from the amount of time she's willing to spend with him lately. It's only her unwavering loyalty that compels her to stay with him, especially since he just seems so lost lately.

_Where would I be without you, Rosalie Hale? _

He smiles at her sadly and touches her arm, before going back to putting the junk he'd accumulated on his table inside the box.

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Rosalie stays over at his apartment the entire Saturday. They spend the day lazing around the place – thinking, analyzing, looking for ways to repel the impending doom, going over their options again and again in between bouts of lovemaking. By afternoon, they're both so exhausted physically and mentally that all they can do is climb into bed to sleep the night away. Sunday morning comes but doesn't offer new answers so Rosalie decides to stop moping and leave the apartment to "straighten out their financial mess."

"You prefer to be with a bunch of numbers than to be with me? Very flattering, Rose."

"Right now, you're nothing but an unemployable statistic. Impotent and useless," she kisses him goodbye, belying the sting of her words.

Rosalie's unscheduled departure leaves Edward restless so he decides to go for a run minutes after she leaves. He starts on the familiar streets near his apartment, going through the small park nearby and through the quiet roads beside. The air is crisp enough for a few, clear breaths and his dark mood is starting to lift a little when he notices an unfamiliar car parked in front his apartment.

Alarmed, he does a sharp turn towards the back of his building and climbs the fire exit to get to his unit. He enters his apartment carefully and doublelocks the door before moving to stand near the windows to see if the car is still there.

It still is but a woman dressed in black from head to toe is now standing next to it. Next to her is a big, muscled man – clearly a bodyguard – and Edward is silently grateful that Rosalie is no longer there. They've gone through it once– burly men visiting their homes and offices, threatening phone calls, bomb scares, strange cars following them from work and after. Aro Volturi is a hard man and he made it a point to remind them of it often. Everyone at the office had endured the silent harassment for his sake, most of all Rose.

But that was all before the trial.

_What do you want now, Aro? You've already won._

The phone rings, making him jump out of his skin, and he pulls away from the window to answer it.

"Yes?"

"Edward Masen?" A woman asks.

"Yes."

"Forgive me for disturbing you, Mr. Masen. My name is Esme Cullen and yes, I'm the one currently in front of your apartment. I was wondering if it's possible that we could have a talk."

"If Volturi has anything else to say to me, he can do so through my lawyers."

"Oh no, Mr. Masen," she laughs. "I have no wish to speak for Aro and his creeps. Let me introduce myself again, my name is Esme Cullen and I came here at the behest of my husband, Carlisle Cullen, head of Cullen Enterprises. Perhaps you've heard of him?"

Edward pulls the phone away from his ear to look at it incredulously. Carlisle Cullen – of course he's heard of him. An old school industrialist, Carlisle Cullen is Aro Volturi's closest and oldest rival. Their families were once close, but policy and other differences drove Cullen and Volturi apart until they became bitter enemies. Volturi then expanded his empire to the stock market and speculative finance while Carlisle Cullen doggedly held on to the old economy – trains, sawmills, airlines and lately, small town businesses.

"Mr. Masen? I promise I won't take too much of your time."

It takes Edward a full minute before he makes up his mind. Somebody did once say that the enemy of my enemy is my friend.

"Come on up, I'll buzz you in," he says. "But leave the watchdog down there."

"Yes, of course."

Esme Cullen knocks on his door a little later and Edward lets her in, giving her the once over. She is a handsome woman, confident, obviously of the old rich. Hamptonite, he decides, but comfortable enough to step into his neighborhood. She doesn't look deranged or dangerous or prone to crackpot theories or requests.

"What can I do for you, Mrs. Cullen?"

"It's not me that you can do something for, Mr. Masen, it's my husband. He wants to offer you a job."

"A job? Do you need someone for the press?"

"No, Edward. Can I call you Edward?" She doesn't wait for his answer. "The job concerns a more personal matter. I'd love to tell you but my husband insists that he tells you himself."

"You can't be more specific?"

"You'll have to forgive me for that. He wants you to come to our estate in Washington to hear him out."

"I don't do house calls."

"The matter might interest you. Come to our estate in Washington. For a small fee, all you have to do is to hear us out."

"Are you trying to buy me?"

"Good heavens, no," Esme Cullen chuckles. "But I'll be honest and say that we know just how precarious your and your magazine's finances are."

"Why me?" he asks. The idea is too random, it weirds him out.

"We have it on the highest authority that we can count on you, and that we can trust you."

"Are you sure?" he laughs a little. "In case you haven't been reading the papers lately, I am a convicted felon."

"The Volturi case?" she smiles at him. "Quite a circus but it doesn't concern us. I can't say for sure but it's possible that we can even help you out with it."

The carrot is so artlessly waved in his face that he cringes when he lunges at it.

"Help me out how?"

"We can talk about it if and when you decide to take the job. Call me in five days, and if you're amenable, I'll have a plane ready for you. Dress warm, it's cold in Forks this time of year."

After the carrot, comes the stick.

-------------

More than two thousand miles away, in a small apartment in Seattle, Isabella Black takes a secure digital microcard the size of a fingernail from under the carpet near her bed. She puts it on the table and looks at it thoughtfully as she boots a black, unmarked laptop. She uses whitebooks – laptops she personally assembles from readily available parts – and open software. Brand names don't impress her and Microsoft absolutely drives her insane. All her equipment is generic and unlabeled, her electronic tracks covered in the strongest encryption, virtually untraceable.

She plays with the microcard, flipping it between her thumb and forefinger, as she waits for the laptop to set up her firewalls and ask for her unified key. She knows she needs to destroy it, flush it down the toilet. There are dangers to keeping information in unsafe places and the small, black card is more dangerous than most. The microdisk happens to hold 80 gigabytes of raw data, including an exact replica of Edward Masen's harddrive – his writings, drafts, letters, references, saved passwords, emails – all remotely, and ingeniously, acquired. If Newton finds it in her possession, or anyone else for that matter, she's looking at a minimum of two years in prison.

She fidgets in her chair. The thought of being locked up always digs up unpleasant memories and puts her on edge. It's why she keeps her business clean as far as possible. But sometimes, a case manages to fascinate her so completely that she finds it hard to operate within the limiting confines of the law. Cases like Edward Masen. She knows she should be destroying everything she dug up on him, as she does with all material after she finishes with a job. But for some reason, she can't bring herself to throw anything away.

The Volturi case is directly related to him, she rationalizes to herself, so she can't destroy his files yet. It's total bullshit, but she convinces herself. She snags a card adapter and inserts it in the laptop's card slot.

_Open folder?_

"Might as well do it thoroughly"she murmurs to herself and presses enter. "Hello, hell."

Fingers flying over the keyboard, she loads a small program to set up a series of interlocking proxy servers, types in an IP address and an area code.

A small, black window pops up and she types in a simple search command.

She lights a cigarette, props her booted feet on the table and waits for the program to make the connection.

Three minutes later, a Windows desktop, clearly not hers, appears on the screen. Three more static-filled windows pop up. She opens another terminal program and logs in as the system operator.

"What have you been up to, old man?"

In a split second, a succession of emails and files roll over the black screen. Another couple of seconds and the static clears on the three other windows. One shows a bedroom, another a front door. A tall, bearded man walks in on the third, holding a large cup.

Thousands of miles away, Isabella Black crushes out her cigarette against the table's surface, flicks the butt carelessly towards an open window and peers into the small squares on her screen. She then hunkers down to sort and ponder on the latest banalities of Edward Masen's life.

----------------

Questions? Theories? Guesses?

Next chapter in a while.


	4. why me

**Proof by Contradiction**

_Disclaimer: Contains characters that belong to SMeyer and strong allusions to Stieg Larsson's characters._

_Hugs and love to Maylin (dihenydd) and Stacy (lambcullen). Beta and prereader, respectively._

* * *

**00000-o-000000**

Edward instantly regrets his decision as soon as he sees the small private jet on the tarmac. It had taken him exactly three days to make up his mind. He knows that he's probably being manipulated but just can't resist the promise of any information regarding the Volturi. He stands awkwardly in the airport's private lounge, staring at some personnel who're looking at him expectantly.

"I'm to ride that?" He asks the man who is standing beside him, probably urging him in his mind to please stop standing around stupidly and board the aircraft now.

"Yes, sir," the man answers. "Mrs. Cullen ordered the company jet to pick you up, sir."

The man is frowning at him slightly, trying to hide his irritation, so Edward tells himself to suck it up and lets Esme Cullen's minions lead him onto the plane.

_I should be used to being screwed around by rich women by now_, he thinks as he follows a young stewardess to his seat. He groans when he realizes that he's the only passenger.

He lands in Seattle a few hours later, his mood buoyed by several shots of whiskey and the flattering attention he received from the plane's sole stewardess. The airport's personnel greet him cordially and one leads him to the private parking lot where a uniformed chauffeur is waiting for him. He'd told Esme Cullen that he would appreciate it if he could visit his mother's cabin first before deciding on accepting their invitation to stay on their estate. She'd conceded after much debate, insisting that he should at least meet them for dinner.

The ride to Forks is a long one, but Edward is grateful for it. Riding in the backseat of a luxurious sedan gives him time to think, to go over his folly again and convince himself that he can always back out and leave. He checks Seattle airport's flight schedules on his phone and is satisfied that there's a flight from Seattle to New York at 10 the next morning.

_If this doesn't work out, I'll be back in New York by sundown tomorrow._

It has been a long time since he's been back to Forks, 25 years to be exact. Except for a smattering of memories of the place, he doesn't remember much of the town. He has vague memories of where his mother once worked and a couple of young kids' faces that he assumes had been his friends. He can't even remember the house where he once lived.

So when the chauffeur informs him that they've arrived, he's completely unaffected by the sight of his childhood home. He gets out of the car, helps the chauffeur get his bags from the trunk, bids him goodbye and casually enters the small, white house which his mother had left to him.

The place is nondescript and he searches his memory to try to remember ever living here. He gives up after a while and decides to explore it. The place is clean and homey. Mr. and Mrs. Banner, the couple to whom he'd lent it for a small fee had obviously taken good care of it. The furniture is old, but well preserved, the walls painted white with blue trimmings. Very cozy, he thinks, as he climbs the stairs to check out the rooms. There are two bedrooms, connected by a common bathroom. He peers into the smaller one, convinced that it was once his, but finds no evidence of his past there.

At quarter to six, Esme calls to inform him that a car and a chauffeur have been sent to pick him up. He dresses carefully, not knowing what to expect.

It takes less than an hour from his mother's house to the Cullen mansion. Edward can already see the mansion even several miles away, its imposing structure dominating the forests that surround it. The gates to the estate swing open easily at the car's approach and Edward finds himself standing in front of a massive wooden door in no time.

The door opens before he can even knock.

"Edward Masen," a tall, silver-haired man greets him with exuberance and for a moment, Edward is afraid that he is going to be pulled into an unwanted embrace. But the man merely holds out his hand.

"Mr. Cullen," he shakes his hand.

"Call me Carlisle," the older man replies, "I'm glad you decided to come over. Dinner will be ready in a few minutes."

"I'm not sure I'm staying for dinner," Edward answers, "it depends on what you called me here for."

Carlisle pauses in midstep and turns to look back at him. Edward holds his stare, trying not to blink. _It's always the same with these rich, old bastards. They expect you to follow them, just because they say so._

"Fair enough," Carlisle gives him a small smile. "Let's talk in my study. Luisa, can you bring us coffee and some rolls?

Edward follows him inside the house, giving Luisa – a small, round woman – a friendly nod. Carlisle's study is located near the house's foyer and Edward glances around surreptitiously as soon as he steps inside it. There's nothing remarkable or surprising in it, just what someone would expect in the office of a CEO of one of the largest companies in the country. A big desk, booklined walls, the head of a deer mounted on one side. Edward walks casually towards the study's windows, surveying the photographs that are scattered on the shelves and the wall just above it. Various family members, he assumes, with the odd framed photograph of the town's landmarks here and there. He is about to comment on them when he notices a picture of a young girl, about sixteen, with shoulder-length raven hair. The girl is smiling and he stares at it, not knowing why.

"My sister, Alice. Do you remember her?"

"No, should I?"

"She took care of you whenever she had the chance. Later, when you were five or six, she'd go over your place to look after you."

"I'm sorry, but I don't remember her or anything."

"I understand, you were only seven when your mother decided to move. But I remember you, you used to run around the company headquarters during those days your mother couldn't find a proper babysitter."

Carlisle rummages for something inside the side drawer of his desk and pulls out a picture.

"Ah, here it is," Carlisle says, pulling out an old photograph. In it are two men, a woman and a girl, a teen-age boy and a toddler. He recognizes his mother instantly and the girl standing beside her as Alice. The man in the middle looks suspiciously like an older Carlisle and the teen a younger Carlisle.

A chill passes through him as he sees what the toddler had in his hands. A white and blue toy cruiser. He recognizes it, as it currently sits on a bookshelf back at his apartment.

"You loved that cruiser," Carlisle comments when he sees him looking intently at it. "You wanted one just like the one your neighbor drove so my father had one made for you. Detective Swan, I doubt if you remember him."

"No," he whispers, suddenly overwhelmed by the feeling of déjà vu. He looks around Carlisle's study again and realizes that he's been here before. Somehow, he'd just forgotten. "How is she? Alice?"

"Alice disappeared 25 years ago."

"What?" Edward looks at him in surprise. For some odd reason, he feels like he's just been sucker punched. "What happened?"

"You really don't remember?" Carlisle looks at him curiously. "She's actually the reason why I called you here."

"No, I don't remember anything. I've never even thought about her all these years," he says and another feeling – guilt-- passes through him. He doesn't know why.

"Then it really is a good thing you decided to come. I know you're unconvinced of your purpose here but let me get the entire story out first. Sleep on it tonight and if you're still unconvinced come morning, then we shall part ways. You will never have to deal with me or my wife again."

"Fair enough," Edward replies, trying to keep the curiosity out of his voice.

"Alice was a bright, happy girl. She was a couple of years younger than me but she was very mature for her age. Our mother had died giving birth to her so it was largely our father, or to put it more accurately, our nannies and surrogates who brought us up. We grew up well, if I may say so, as we had a pretty average, ordinary childhood. The trouble started when she started high school. On her first day, she met this boy, a new arrival said to come from Phoenix. A lot of people doubted it in the beginning since he was unnaturally pale. Jasper Whitlock, adoptive son of Peter and Charlotte Whitlock. Peter was a doctor, a fine one if the stories were to be believed, and Charlotte was a stay-at-home devoted mother and interior decorator. Alice met Whitlock in biology class, talked and fell into that all-consuming, irrational love of teenagers. For a time, they were virtually inseparable. Whitlock even came over for dinner several times to wheedle his way into my father's good graces. I have to admit, the boy knew how to be charming. Even I wasn't immune to his Southern, gentlemanly ways. He was good to Alice, generally. It was only three months later that they had a big fight. Alice threw a rather ugly tantrum, supposedly after breaking up with him. She left abruptly, telling us that she was bored with living in a small town and that she'd had enough of Father's unreasonable restrictions. She came back after a few days, or rather, we caught up with her in Phoenix several days later. She was in a hospital, with multiple fractures and the official story was that Jasper went after her and then she fell three floors down and through the window of the hotel where Jasper and his foster parents were staying. The Whitlocks managed to procure several witnesses so my father swallowed the entire story without question. I was never convinced. Alice was prone to accidents, but aside from walking into walls, she wasn't one who'd fall three floors down stairs for no apparent reason. She wasn't athletic but she wasn't stupid.

They came back, she and Jasper, and life returned to normal for a while. Then two months later, all hell broke loose again but this time, it was Jasper Whitlock who left her. My poor sister was told that Peter Whitlock was offered a plum post in Los Angeles and that it was too good to pass up and so the whole family was moving. It had always been a mystery why they came here in the first place.

"I saw him talk to Alice, the day he left. They went for a walk, there" Carlisle points to a wooded area through the window behind the house. "Alice didn't come back for dinner so my father sounded off the alarm. The police were called and a search party organized. It was almost morning when she was found, with the help of trackers from the Quileute tribe.

I never could forget that day. My father was visibly in pain, thinking that she was lying broken somewhere like the first time she left us. The hours were agonizing, all we could do was wait. It was at 2am when Billy Black – a stout but sturdy man, built like an ox – strode out of the forest, carrying my unconscious sister. They'd found her lying on the forest floor, almost 20 miles away. The bastard Whitlock had not only left her, he didn't even bother to bring her home.

After he left, she was never the same. She stayed in her room most of the time, she only hung out with me. I tried to be there for her, but she never really told me anything. I was too angry at Whitlock, anyhow, and refused to listen to anything she had to say about him."

"I assume she was very angry." Poor Alice.

"No, she wasn't, which only made me angrier at the boy. Alice defended Jasper all the time. Looking back, I should have seen her obsession. It was frightening for a girl to be so taken with somebody to the point that she almost didn't exist anymore. I should have listened to her then, and maybe I'd be able to understand what she was thinking before she went missing.

But I was away most of the time – college – and my worries became moot when Alice got tired of her moping after a while. She started going out again. She went back to her friends, even made new friends. She began hanging out and motorbiking with the Quileute boys, much to my father's chagrin. But he let her be. As long as Alice appeared to be happy, my father was willing to overlook her less-than-safe activities. She also went back to dropping by your house or the company's headquarters whenever you were there. She and your mom got along well. She may even have been her confidante for a time. And of course, you were her favorite."

Edward lets the last comment go, wanting to take it at face value but unwilling to accept that Carlisle might just be telling the truth and not deliberately fanning his guilt. He couldn't shake the feeling that all the older man's actions are rehearsed and timed to give him the impression of familiarity, forcing him to remember what might or might not be real memories. Carlisle is the head of a conglomerate, after all, used to board room tactics and manipulations. Prior to coming to Forks, Edward had done his homework – he'd dug up Carlisle's immediate history – how he'd survived various attempts to throw him off the company board, how he'd managed to defeat his adversaries. Carlisle Cullen is not a man to be trifled with and Edward can see a single-minded determination while he is relating Alice' story.

"You wouldn't have left any stone unturned in your search."

"Not one stone," Carlisle murmurs, his thoughts far away. "My father poured millions into a search that lasted years. It consumed not only him, but even the lead investigator at that time. And when he died, I took over. I had the case reopened ten years later, had every lead and theory reinvestigated. I hired the best detectives – ex-police officers, military, even a psychic or two."

"And still there were no solid leads? Not even one?"

"There'd be one every once in a while. But it'd fizzle out for some reason or another."

"So why now? Why are you opening it again?"

"The reason is a bit complicated... a little mercenary, if you will, this time," Carlisle says. "You see, Alice Cullen was left with a trust fund of hundreds of millions of dollars. When she first disappeared, the board of directors of Cullen Industries agreed that it stay in her name until she reached her 40th birthday. If upon reaching that age she is still declared missing, the fund would revert back to the original owners of the company. I've managed to fight any move to liquidate the trust fund for two years but I may not be so lucky this year."

"Who stands to benefit from it?"

"I do, as head of Cullen Enterprises. The other beneficiary would be Aro Volturi. His father and mine put up the seed money for Cullen Industries so he is eligible for it. I have no strong need for Alice's money, but I'll be damned if I hand over close to a hundred million dollars to that bastard."

_The enemy of my enemy is my friend, _the adage flits through Edward's mind again. It seems that they have more than one thing in common.

"This happened 25 years ago. I don't see myself as doing or discovering anything that could be relevant."

"You're an investigative journalist, Edward. You're known to study financial irregularities like they're crime scenes."

"Fraud is considered a crime."

"Which is why I think you'd be perfect for the job," the other answers. "You'll be able to bring something to the investigation that we've never tried before. I owe Alice at least one last effort. Finding her killer..."

"Wait -, " Edward interrupts. "Her killer? You never mentioned a killer."

"I was going to go into that. Her case was considered as a missing persons case because her body was never found," Carlisle stands and walks to the wall. "She was declared dead in absentia after seven years, as per the law, but up to now, hers is an unsolved case that can be reopened again and again, as long as there's new and compelling evidence."

"This," he pulls a framed photograph from the wall, "was taken by Alice when she was 14. My father gave her a Nikon camera as a present, cost quite a fortune at that time. Alice took it with her everywhere and took pictures of everything and everyone.

Sadly, she burned most of her pictures when Whitlock left. I managed to find a few here and there over the years but most of them are gone.

Do you recognize this?" Carlisle pulls another picture, one that had caught Edward's attention earlier. "It's the company's headquarters. She took it, framed it and gave it to our father for his 45th birthday. She gave him this," Carlisle points to another photo, also black and white and mounted on a 6X8 frame, "on his 48th birthday and this the year she disappeared."

"I'm sorry, but I don't know how this is relevant or where all this is leading."

"This is another reason why I insisted that we do this here," Carlisle stands up, opens a drawer and pulls out a ring of old keys. "I want to show you something. Come."

Edward follows him quietly, too intrigued to protest. Carlisle leads him outside his study, past the wide and overwhelming foyer and into a series of corridors that lead to the west side of the house. They come to a door and Carlisle opens it with the old set of keys.

"These are Alice's rooms," he declares as he pushes it open, motioning for Edward to follow him inside. "My father had it sealed a long time ago and it has never been reopened. A maid comes here every once in a while to dust the cabinets and trunks but otherwise, everything she owned is here."

White sheets cover the big, baroque furniture. Trunks and wooden boxes are piled against one wall but it is the wall opposite it that catches Edward's attention instantly. Rows of photographs are mounted on it. All black and white, all in 6X 8 frames similar to Alice's pictures in Carlisle's study.

His feet carry him in front of the wall and Edward can see they are pictures of different places and they all seem to be taken by the same person, using the same equipment.

"Every year after Alice disappeared, we'd receive a package. In the beginning, the deliveries would coincide with my father's birthday and when he died, they came during mine. Every year, we would dispatch a team, a group of experts to try to identify the place, track where the package came from. And almost always, they came back empty handed."

Four photographs of old Los Angeles, followed by a series of photographs of New York. New Jersey, Las Vegas, Houston...there was even a picture of the famed Seattle skyline. Edward peers into each one closely with growing fascination. The pictures in themselves are eerie, as each chronicles the changes of cities, places, even small towns.

Edward can identify some of the places taken in large cities, with known landmarks in the background. But an odd picture of a desolate landscape would break a pattern – a coral covered with snow, a wide expanse of snow stretching towards snow covered mountains, a blackbird sitting on a white fence – scenes that are common in little, backwater towns.

"In the beginning, we would notify the police each time a package would arrive. But after several years, it became a banality, sort of an inside joke in Forks' little police station so my father and I decided to keep it to ourselves. Only a few older officers know that the packages continue to arrive up to this day."

Edward is finishing up with his silent inspection when something catches his eye. For the second time that night, his blood runs cold when he sees the subject of one of the photographs. It is a seemingly innocent picture of a dormitory, with the lens focused on a particular window. He pulls the frame from the wall and turns to Carlisle, his eyes blazing.

"What are you trying to pull here, Carlisle?" He can't keep the anger and distrust from his voice. "This, this here is my room in Yale."

"You were in Yale from 1992 to 1996. Take a look at the date."

Edward peers at the small markings at the bottom left of the picture. It was marked March 1, 1990, a good two years before he even set foot in college. His anger leaves him as fast as it had come.

"I have the postage receipts, pictures, complete documentation to prove when and from where each of these pictures were delivered," Carlisle's says quietly. "I understand your skepticism. Even I'm a little skeptical myself. But try as I might, I could never accept any of the other possibilities that the police had been trying to convince us with."

Edward puts the picture back in its place and shakes his head to clear his thoughts. The entire thing is upsetting him, despite his resolve to maintain distance.

"Suicide?" he offers a theory.

"The body would have been found."

"She ran away?"

"We would have been able to track her," Carlisle shakes his head. "My father had the best investigators, the best officers on the case. He even managed to persuade the FBI to look into it. Besides, why would she run away? There was no motivation, no reason, nothing..."

Carlisle's voice trails like he's talking to himself.

"It's like she just vanished into thin air," he says. "Then the pictures started coming in. Somebody, somewhere is getting off on the fact that we can never let the case go, never be able to find closure."

"You think it's her killer who's sending all these pictures?"

"Who else could it be?"

"Alice herself?"

"Why? If she was alive, why would she stay away from us? We have no fight with her, no expectations, even during her most wild days with those Quileute boys, my father never sanctioned her."

Carlisle is getting worked up as he talks, his arms moving in wide arcs, like he's physically rejecting the idea.

"Did you ever have a list of suspects? Possibilities?"

"For a time, everyone was suspect. My father, all the employees, her classmates, the baker's son who walks in front of the company headquarters everyday, even me," he answers. "But in the end, there was only one name that made sense. I went over and over this and only came up with one – Jasper Whitlock."

"The boyfriend? I thought you said he vanished a few months before."

"That's just it. He vanished. With absolutely no trace of him or his so-called family. We tried to find him, thinking Alice just might have run away with him or to him."

"But like Alice, there was no trace of a Jasper Whitlock or a Peter or Charlotte Whitlock. No record of them from the place they supposedly came from, and nothing either in Los Angeles where they were supposedly going to."

"Like they never existed," Edward murmurs, caught up in the tale.

"Like they never existed," Carlisle echoes his words and Edward is left with only one question.

"Why me?"

"You were one of the last people to see her."

-------------------

**_Surprised? Meh?_**

_**Take notes, there will be a quiz later. :P**_

_**Next chapter in a couple of days.**_


	5. how'd you do it?

**Proof by Contradiction**

_Disclaimer: Contains characters that belong to SMeyer and strong allusions to Stieg Larsson's characters._

_Hugs and love to Maylin (dihenydd) and Stacy (lambcullen). Beta and prereader, respectively._

* * *

**00000-o-000000**

"That's just plain crazy."

"Why? Because somehow, you find yourself a direct participant?"

"No...yes. Look, I understand your grief, even your pressing reasons. And I am so sorry at what happened to Alice. But I can't take this job. You've already had all leads investigated and I honestly don't think I can add anything more to it. It would be a complete waste of my time and your money."

"Just hear me out, listen to what I want you to do."

Edward sighs, feeling more and more disturbed. Questions are already forming in his mind. Why doesn't he remember? He was seven years old, he'd probably already had two years of kindergarten. Kids already have reliable memories at that age. If he was one of the last people who saw Alice, did the police ask him about it? Did the Cullens? Did they have it on file? Why didn't his mother ever mention it before?

He asks the last question out loud and Carlisle looks at him evenly.

"Your mother made it known after you gave your testimony that she never wanted anyone to bring the issue up with you again. But your questioning was exhaustive, taking several days. My father even brought a child psychologist in."

"And?"

"And nothing. You were with Alice for the Independence Day Parade some time during the day, she treated you to ice cream before your mother met up with you. There was a terrible accident that day, a crash invoving two teenagers and she, like most young people, went to the crash site to see who it was. She went home a little later. Dozens of people saw her. "

"So I had nothing to do with it."

"No, nothing at all," Carlisle answers and Edward expels a breath he didn't know he was holding. "I have the transcripts of all your sessions. I can arrange for them to be delivered to you, if you want to take a look."

Edward looks at him. If he wasn't sure before that he's being manipulated, his emotions and vague memories played on, he's sure now. He wants the meeting to end suddenly.

"All right," he relents, the faster he gets through the older man's proposal, the sooner he can get out of the place, "let's hear it."

Carlisle gives him a small, triumphant smile.

"I've already had my lawyers draw us up a contract. I want you to stay here in Forks for a minimum of ten months, negotiable with the New York State penitentiary. I can act as your guarantor, have the Forks police named as your custodians until the time that you need to go into detention. After which, you come back here to serve the entirety of our contract."

"You want me to put my life, my work, on hold for almost a year?"

"Your work?" Carlisle gives him a small smile. "That's already been on hold for a while now, hasn't it?."

Edward doesn't answer and Carlisle pushes on.

"I want you to go over all the records, scrutinize all the reports on Alice's disappearance. I want you to read everyone's sworn accounts again, word for word, and look for something, anything that the police and other law enforcers may have missed. I want you to question everything, every available conclusion, from the easy to the preposterous, the way you would go over a company's records to look for a cleverly concealed anomaly. Investigate the investigators. Find something, anything that has eluded us old fools who've been looking at the same words and images with jaded eyes for the past 25 years."

"And then what?"

"Then nothing. I will be overjoyed if you find something. If not, then it was never meant to be. But don't let it be said that I didn't try everything in my power to catch her killer and bring her some semblance of justice. I owe that much to Alice."

"You're willing to pay me for nothing?" Edward's tone is incredulous and Carlisle gives a short laugh.

"Edward Masen," he looks at the younger man with an amused smile, "you're an honest man. I say this to you because I know that when you take the job, you will do everything in your capacity to do what I ask, regardless of the money involved."

Edward continues to stare at him like he just lost his mind.

"But you're right," Carlisle says after a while. "I'm willing to pay you $250,000 a month, that's $2.5 million in all for accepting the job and seeing through the 10-month contract alone. I have no unreasonable expectations. But, in the case that you break the mystery, find us Alice's killer or just find out what really happened to her, I will double that amount. Five million sounds fair enough, don't you think?"

"That's insane."

"No, not really. I stand to inherit hundreds of millions when Alice's trust fund reverts to the company. Five million is nothing but a drop in the ocean."

"Carlisle, I know you mean well, and I am flattered that you would think so highly of me but really, what made you think I would accept this job?"

"You will accept," Carlisle answers him with finality, "because I can give you something that is beyond any price to you."

"And what's that?"

"Aro Volturi."

-------------

"You can not be taking this seriously." Rosalie Hale is cool and furious as she stands near the window in Edward's bedroom. She's watching him systematically fold his clothes, pick books and other effects and arranging them in a big suitcase.

"Why not? The offer is legitimate, the old man's sincere about it, what harm could it do?"

"Edward, we are in our worst crisis and you're leaving not just the city, but the state for some little town in the middle of nowhere."

"It's Forks, Rose, in Washington. It's six hours away by plane, plus three hours by car and it won't be forever."

"It could be Timbuktu, for all I care," she exclaims. "It makes you look like you're running away with your tail between your legs."

"That's exactly what I'm doing."

"But why? If you need a break, then go ahead. Go out of the country for a while. Lie on a beach in Brazil, check out the local scene or whatever. Take Emmett with you, relax."

"And when I come back, everything will be the same," he stops packing and with a sigh, walks to her and puts his hands on her arms. " I am not leaving you or the magazine. Volturi has already knocked us down, he will try to bury us next. If he catches one whiff that we're lying about me getting fired, he will bury us faster. You know how many of our advertisers have already pulled out after he issued that boycott call last week. We have to be ready for his next move. Cullen's a manipulative bastard but he promised me something. I don't know if it's something he'll push through, but it's worth looking at. We have nothing to lose. I just have to go through with this thing he's asking me to do."

"You're grasping at straws, Edward. Plus that 'thing' is absolutely idiotic. Going to Forks is right up there with running away with the circus."

"I know, all right?" Edward throws his hands up in the air. "Only I get paid 2.5 million to sit on my ass for ten months. Besides, we need the money."

"I am not touching a cent from your descent into insanity."

"Then we'll use it for something else," he sighs. "I know I've been a selfish bastard lately --"

"You've always been a selfish bastard."

"Yeah," he laughs a little, "there's that. But there's something about the place and the story and the girl, Rose, something I can't explain. I've always wondered what my life was in Forks and every time I asked my mother, she'd go batshit crazy about it. And when she got sick and I had to put her in that facility, I just stopped caring about it. I never even asked her about my father again."

She sits next to him, as he'd wandered to sit on the edge of his bed while he was speaking, and puts her arms around him. He returns the gesture and they stay in the silent embrace for several minutes.

"It just makes me so fucking angry." When Rose speaks again, her voice is barely above a whisper. "We work so hard, stick to our guns, try to do good in our own little way. Then one slip and a rich, crooked dirtbag fucks us over, kicks us when we're already down and just when we thought it couldn't get any worse, another rich bastard comes along and pulls on your strings by digging up bad memories."

"They fuck with us because we make a difference," he gives her a squeeze. "If we weren't hitting them so hard, they wouldn't be screwing us over. We'll find a way to bust their balls, we always do."

"I know that but it still scares the hell out of me," she continues. "Everything is falling apart and you're leaving and I have to make every goddamn decision alone and we may have to fire people and we've never, ever fired people before."

One of the things that made Rosalie so beautiful to Edward has always been her compassion, her deep, rational humanity that is almost always overlooked because of her extremely good looks.

"We're not firing anyone. The staff has already agreed to reduced salaries and when this thing is over, we're going to have us one big party."

"Will it? Will this ever be over?"

"Sure it will," he assures her. He has to believe it for her sake. "You're the best motherfucking ballbuster I know."

She forces a laugh, kisses him on the cheek and moves away to stand next to the window again.

"If you're going to catch your flight, you'd better finish your packing," she says quietly.

"Are you going to be all right?"

She nods, bright-eyed and a little too enthusiastically.

"You do what you have to do and I'll do whatever I can," she declares firmly. "I'll hold the fort while you're gone."

"Will you come visit me in Forks?" He almost doesn't ask, knowing he's being selfish again. He shouldn't expect anything from her. It's him who's leaving her in the lurch, after all.

"Sure," she smiles at him sadly. It's only for a while but she wonders why she can't shake the feeling that they're breaking up. "I'll make time."

"Say goodbye to Emmett for me."

-----------------

Edward arrives in Forks the second time more prepared. Proper clothing, proper accessories, proper attitude.

As soon as he arrives in his mother's old house, he sets it up, readying it for a long occupancy. His clothes in the closet, toiletries in the bathroom, books and cds on the shelves downstairs. Prior to his coming, somebody had already had the place thoroughly cleaned. Fresh sheets are already in the master bedroom, bright new curtains on the windows, even the refrigerator is fully stocked.

He decides quickly which area he likes best to set up his office and unpacks his arsenal – a printing-photocopying-scanning machine, a Nikon SLR, external drives and his trusty Macbook.

That afternoon, he pays a visit to his employer and manages to convince Carlisle to have all materials delivered to his house. They talk about his troubles at The Review over dinner and Carlisle shares a few memories of Edward's mother and their life from their time in Forks.

The next day, boxes of materials are delivered to his door. The movers go in and out the living room and Edward watches with growing dread as the stack of boxes goes higher and higher against the wall. The delivery is in no particular order and he knows that it will be up to him to sort everything out later.

Thankfully, he immediately locates the core files of the investigation. Thirteen thick binders of police reports and various collected materials – photographs, scrapbooks, Alice Cullen's diary, her school reports, her classmates' school reports, medical certificates, security logbooks, newspaper clippings of the parade.

He scrawls a date on the whiteboard: July 4, 1985. Independence Day, the day Alice Cullen disappeared. He starts sorting out the material, arranging it on the wall as the chain of events slowly unfolds to him.

Sifting through the data, Edward realizes the limits of the investigation then. Video surveillance cameras weren't so widely used and personalized video gadgets weren't that pervasive then. The police had to rely on eyewitnesses and with such a big and mobile crowd, it was almost impossible to spot who belonged and who didn't. But even so, to be able to put together thirteen thick binders of information is impressive enough and Edward checks the investigative officer: Detective Charlie Swan.

Over the next few days, Edward establishes a routine for himself. He wakes up at 10, eats breakfast and works until noon. He breaks for lunch, works into the early evening until dinner time. He then takes a walk around his neighborhood or eats out before hunkering down and working until the wee hours of the morning.

The routine is fairly easy for him to follow and he doesn't notice that several days, then a week, then two weeks have gone by. It isn't until Esme Cullen is knocking on his door one afternoon, bearing trays of rolls and other pastries that he realizes how the case is absorbing him.

"My dear boy, we've missed you. You hardly get out of this place." The older woman gives him a kiss on each cheek and proceeds to his kitchen. He follows her politely.

"I've been working."

"I can see that," she beams, looking around the paper-and-photograph-covered wall. "Carlisle has been so pleased with what you're doing so far."

"I've only been reading," Edward laughs. "I don't think I've managed to touch even a sixth of everything."

"Ah, but your neighbors tell us you burn the midnight oil frequently."

"My neighbors? Do you have them spying on me?"

"Not as much as someone I know," Esme chortles. "She did say you were quite the methodical worker."

"Excuse me? She? Who are we talking about?"

"Oh, forgive me. That's just me and my big mouth," she says casually and pretends to peer out of his windows. "You have a lovely view. Would you mind if we took our coffee outside?"

He indulges her, taking out the coffee and rolls and letting her comment on this and that before going back to the topic.

"Did you have someone spy on me?"

"It was nothing dramatic. Just a little of your background, your career, your work habits..."

"So that's how you and your husband always seem to know what to say to me."

"Oh come now, Edward. It was just a little background check. Surely that's just standard procedure."

"How thorough was it?" She gives him a sidelong glance, shaking her head a little. "No, I'm just curious."

"Quite."

"Did it have the Volturi in it?"

"A bit."

"I want to read it."

"I don't think that's a good idea."

"All right," Edward straightens his back, "how about this? Either I get to read it or I quit. I can pack up my things overnight, have them taken to Seattle by bus and be on the plane at 10AM."

He figures he's been manipulated enough that he deserves to know what they have on him.

They sit in his backyard for close to an hour – chatting pleasantly about the weather and life in a small town, drinking coffee and eating rolls. Exactly an hour and half later, Edward Cullen stands in his kitchen, holding a Newton Securities' binder in his hand.

He's almost afraid to peek inside the 185-page report at first. But he forces himself to open it and quickly skims through what looks like a half-documentation, half-intel report on his life. The thought that a stranger had documented and interpreted his life without his consent or his knowledge unsettles him.

_Jesus Christ, _he mutters close to an hour later. The report isn't just "quite thorough," it's a complete invasion of his privacy. It's bad enough that it contains every detail of his finances, his relationship with Rosalie, his work overseas. It also contains even the most obscure, most hidden facets of his life – a love affair with an older woman who now sits in the New York Senate, a deal gone bad for his unpublished first book, an attempt at a rock band in high school, even his brief experimentation with a BDSM club.

He notices something different with one of the papers included in the report. He reads it, then reads it again.

_No, that can't be right. _But it is, even though he's loathe to admit it. He scans the front pages again, looking for the company that did the work. It's his luck that the investigator who did it is listed as well: Isabella Black.

How'd you do it, Isabella Black? Despite his uneasiness, he's completely awed by the report. It was a brilliant, almost genius piece of work. The material that had been dug up is impressive and he can't help but think that if he had someone with her investigative and analytical skills on his team, he would have been able to detect fraud easily. Or he would have been able to ferret out the real secrets that would have nailed Volturi.

He looks around him. The boxes, photos, materials scattered all over the house remind him of his current problems. If he had someone to work with, he'd also make headway through reams and reams of data faster.

_If I had someone like her working __with__ me, maybe something from the mountains of paper will make sense. _

He leaps up to his feet and grabs his phone. He spends a few minutes talking to Esme Cullen, then to Carlisle, detailing what he wants done and how. He makes a call to Seattle, makes an urgent appointment, dropping several hints along the way.

At dawn the next day, Edward Cullen wakes up early, shaves his beard after he's showered, puts on his best shirt and is on his way to Seattle before the sun rises.

* * *

_**There are threads for this.**_

_**Links at my profile.**_

_**Drop by if you have the time.**_

**Thanks for reading!**


	6. black swan

_**Same disclaimers apply and more people to thank. Maylin my beta who is going through some things in RL, Lambcullen who has a new fic, Catching Spiders, which is awesome. All those who'd read and reviewed. Thank you, thank you, thank you. **__**Like some of the things I've written, it starts a bit slow before it picks up and will generally be annoying (sorry 'bout that.)**_

_**So here it is. They meet at last. In a sense, everything that came before leads to this.**_

* * *

**Proof by Contradiction**

"Isabella Black?"

The girl peering at him looks like a 15-year old who stayed up way past her bedtime and he can barely contain his surprise. _How many rings does she have on her ears? What the fuck is that on her nose?_ His eyes sweep over her, taking in the bleary eyes and haggard face, the too-big shirt that hangs on her frame, the baggy cargo pants and bare feet.

"Who wants to know?" She stares back at him with shocked bewilderment.

Edward knows he has the right apartment so he tries a friendly smile.

"Tough night?"

"What do you want?"

"You remember this?" He holds up a binder that she recognizes as her report.

"I don't know what that is," she moves to slam the door but he jams it with the thick binder. Before she can react, Edward pushes the door and walks in, closing it behind him.

"There's some things I want to discuss with you." He strides into her apartment, ignoring her shocked expression.

"What are you doing?" Bella explodes belatedly, following close on his heels.

"I know it's a bit early to be visiting so I brought breakfast." He pats the paper bag he's holding, going straight into her small kitchen.

"You can't just barge in here."

"Do you have coffee?"

"We don't even know each other."

"Really?" Edward stops and turns to face her abruptly."You sell yourself short, Black. You know me better than anybody."

Panic swells inside her and Bella tries to control the fear that's starting to grip her muscles. A thousand thoughts run through her mind, all screaming that something is horribly wrong. Only select clients know her and none of her subjects had ever seen her face to face. She'd never had one come into her apartment.

_Breathe, _she tells herself. _Breathe_. _Arms over chest._

"Your boss, Mike Newton? He's been trying to call you since last night," he says, oblivious to her reaction, and Bella stares at him blankly before diving into a pile of clothes, bags and random things on the floor near the door to look for her phone. True enough, nine missed calls and a dozen text messages flash angrily on her phone's small screen. One in particular screams: URGENT. NEW CLIENT INSIST DROPPING BY YOUR PLACE TOM. RESPOND. The phone is on silent mode.

_I'm going to kill you, Newton. I'm going to strangle you. _Bella stops herself from throwing something, anything as a sudden rage washes over her and drowns her apprehensions.

_He's here for the report, _she assures herself. _Just the report. Stop, breath, think. Act normal._

She rummages through the mess on her floor until she finds a pack of cigarettes. She lights one, not bothering to ask if he minds or if he'd like one. The fact that he doesn't smoke but finds it sexy in women is just one of the many pieces of useless trivia she knows about him.

_Inhale. Exhale. _She crosses her arms over her chest to stop fidgeting. _Inhale, exhale._

"Charming." Edward looks around the apartment. The place looks like a bomb had gone off inside it recently. Clothes and pizza boxes are scattered on the floor, more clothes hang on pegs on the walls. There's a scattering of books and a couple of old cds on the shelves. The girl is clearly not a fan of music. Or books. Or anything else. He half-expects posters of doomsday rock bands on the walls, maybe some skulls-and-bones paraphernalia hanging from the ceiling but all he sees are various gizmos stacked against a wall and wires crawling across the floor. He walks towards the kitchen and, amidst the disorder, he spots a large espresso maker behind the dish rack. It's still covered in protective plastic from the store but dust has already settled on it.

"So." He puts the paper bag he'd been carrying on the table. "I bought pancakes. How about I make us coffee while you go wake yourself up?"

"I'm awake."

"I can see that." She continues to stare at him and he quirks an eyebrow. "I mean, you may want to go change or something."

The girl just looks at him and Edward is about to backtrack when she walks to stand in front of him and stares directly into his face. He holds his breath, expecting a slap, but she merely shrugs before crushing the cigarette in an ashtray on the table. Without a word, she turns and disappears into what he assumes to be a bedroom.

_Odd, _he frowns to himself_._

He shakes himself from his momentary paralysis and starts scouring for coffee in the girl's less-than-orderly kitchen. He finds a pack over the sink, sniffs it and decides it's fit for consumption. Taking his time, he fiddles with the espresso maker. Her cups and dishes are in various degrees of uncleanliness so he sets about straightening up the sink to clear a portion of her kitchen. He clears the table and sets it for two.

He's on his first cup of her surprisingly good coffee, eating his first pancake when he realizes he feels strangely at ease inside the post-apocalyptic apartment. The entire place feels familiar, like the rooms he once shared with fellow reporters when he was stationed overseas. He gets up from the table and walks to the old, oak table that dominates the living room. On it are several cannibalized computers, a small xerox machine and printer. He's peering into a laptop closely when he hears a sharp voice.

"What are you doing?"

He turns guiltily and almost bumps into her as she's standing close behind him. So close that he finds himself standing back to avoid bumping into her.

_Black certainly becomes her_, he can't help but think as he looks down on her. Black hair, black eyeliner, black lipstick. It clashes superbly with her clear, pale skin and various...trinkets. With some effort, he takes a step back and sees the print on her black shirt – Hang the Leecher – and hopes she doesn't mean him. Fishnet arm wear, low hanging black pants, studded belt on her hips and knee high buckled Doc hair is tied haphazardly in a messy ponytail and he stops himself from asking her if she'd taken time to take a bath. He admits, the get-up ages her so she doesn't look too much like a minor. She must be in her early twenties, he realizes. A company like Newton Securities would hardly hire a 15-year old punk, no matter how brilliant she may be.

_Better, much, much better, _he appraises her_._

"You have interesting equipment," he says, walking back to the kitchen table to shake himself of her presence. "You have an espresso maker that you've never used. I -"

"- have one."

"Excuse me?" He turns back to look at her but she's too busy looking for her cigarettes in another untidy heap of clothes on the floor.

"Espresso maker. You have one. A silver chrome La Pavoni, with a manual lever. 11 by 7 by 12 inches, weighs 15 pounds. Available in brass but you chose chrome because you bought it with chrome Fabrosk espresso cups and saucers. It sits next to your chrome microwave," she trails off when she finds him looking at her oddly. "Thats...enough about coffee makers."

"You've been to my apartment," he says evenly. "Is trespassing part of your MO?"

"No," she frowns in offense. "Your landlady let me in."

"She did, did she?" He takes a seat and finds her brows furrowing deeper. "How'd you con the old hag?"

She lights up and shrugs as she blows smoke in his direction.

"You called for someone to fix your toilet."

"You're a plumber, too?" He laughs, she doesn't. He tries to picture her inside his apartment – going from room to room, touching things he owns, rummaging in his refrigerator, sitting on his couch, lying on his bed. She stares him down from across the table. "Do you have any idea how many laws you broke?"

"Everything in that report was accessed with proper authorization."

"Not everything," he pushes the binder across the table towards her. "You made one little mistake. You included in it a statement that never left my computer. Word for word. My editor rewrote it before she issued it to the press."

The girl stiffens and Edward feels like he just stepped into something foul and ugly.

"Hacking's against the law, Black."

"So is barging into other people's homes uninvited."

_Touché, _he almost says but he can see that she's serious.

"Coffee?" He motions for her to sit down on the only other chair and stands up to get her a cup.

"What do you want, old man?" She sits down without taking her eyes away from him.

"I'm not here to make any trouble." He places the cup directly in front of her, graciously turning it around so that the handle is on her right side.

"Try and you'll be sorry." Ignoring the coffee, she crushes her cigarette on the table in quick, panicked motions. "If you sue, you will have to make the case against Newton Securities. I would advise you against it, not if you don't have proof that I've trespassed anywhere, been somewhere I shouldn't be. I will confess to nothing and I will file counter charges."

"Hopefully, it won't come to that," he attempts to lighten his tone. "A few hours ago, I didn't even know you existed. Then I read your report on my life, your analysis of my decisions. Educational, but not very amusing."

"What are you going to do about it?"

"About your hacking? What can I do about it?" It's his turn to shrug. "One of these days, you and I are going to talk about the ethics of snooping into other people's lives and encroaching on their privacy but right now, I have a more pressing problem. I need someone to help me out with some research."

"I already have a job."

"I've already asked your boss about it, he said yes."

She shakes her head. "No. You and me? Oil and water."

"Why not? Deep down, we're both creepy snoops," he leans back, trying to tread carefully. The girl is certainly odd. She can write a highly detailed and organized report but her apartment is in total chaos. Her analysis is highly intelligent yet she lapses into long, abrupt silences and blank stares in the middle of a conversation. "You can name your rate."

"My rate?"

"Per diem," he clarifies. "Newton's already drawn a private contract so you can work for me exclusively for six months, with the company's commission fully paid. I assume this is all standard procedure in your company."

It is but Bella doesn't tell him, going back to staring at him in stony silence. She's silent for so long that Edward's suddenly unsure if what he had in mind is really going to work.

"I didn't come here to blackmail you. You can refuse and I'll leave," he tries again. "And you don't have to decide now. I assume you know where I'm staying?"

"I can find out," came the calm and expressionless reply.

"Good," he slaps his hands on his thighs as he gets up, "Then I'll leave you to it. If you're up to the job, I'll see you there tomorrow, 8 o'clock sharp."

He doesn't wait for her answer as he walks to the door.

"And oh," he turns just before stepping out, giving her a friendly smile, "thanks for the coffee."

-----

The moment Edward Masen leaves, Bella pulls out the taser that's been digging against her back, relieved that there hadn't been any need to use it. There hadn't been any record on his profile that suggested he's prone to violence – no girlfriend beatings, not even a drunken fistfight – but she'd dug out the trusty old thing from her closet when he'd ask her to change her clothes. She also managed to send a few choice words to Newton before confirming that he'd really given Edward Masen permission to come to her apartment and harass her over a job.

She looks around herself, trying to picture it as he would have seen it, mentally comparing it to his pristine, post-modern bachelor pad. Her coffee maker is unpacked and running, sitting next to her organized dish rack. The dirty dishes have been washed, with the dish towel neatly folded next to the sink. She touches the table, knowing he would have wiped it as well.

Rummaging through her clothes again, she fishes out a book she'd kicked under the mess earlier. The book's cover is black and its title jumps out in big, crisp fonts: _War Mafia: A Study of the US Reconstruction in Afghanistan. _She'd spent the entire night reading it, unable to put it down. Edward Masen had managed to make the dull seem interesting and she'd been surprised that he was able to explain the intricacies of international finance in a straightforward manner without simplifying his conclusions. She turns the book over in her hands and looks at the picture of the bearded, rather attractive man on the back.

_Pleased with yourself, aren't you? _She asks the picture before pitching the book into a nearby trash can.

She'd arrived at the apartment just the day before, back from an assignment that had taken her eleven days to put together. Newton had considered the case high priority so she'd dropped everything else she was working on to concentrate on it.

Not that she was working on anything in particular then. A day before that, she'd received an odd call from Newton, asking her how far she'd goton the Volturi case and telling her to put it on hold as the client seemed to have changed her mind. She'd only been able to identify, locate and download the harddrives of Aro Volturi and his top lawyer so she hadn't really started on it. It wasn't her problem, so she didn't ask why the case was being pulled although she suspected it had something to do with Masen. Newton only told her she'd be compensated for "time wasted."

She turns on one of the computers that Edward Masen had been fiddling with earlier, sits down and sips on the coffee she'd been offered. His desktop appears and her breath catches when she sees the new files that he's conveniently saved at the top of the page. Police reports, photos, newspaper scans and diagrams all neatly organized into separate but interlocking folders. Recognizing the filenames and folders, she knows what they contain even without clicking on them. Somewhere in the city, she keeps the same files. She searches for the IP address, runs it by another program and watches closely as her Geolocator zooms into a location. She knows where it is even before a house number, street and a familiar town appears on her screen.

She pulls out her phone from her jeans, hesitates when she realizes it's too early in the morning to be calling but punches in a number all the same.

Miles away, another phone rings and amidst some groaning, a muscular arm reaches for it.

"Black," a sleepy voice answers.

"Jake, wake up."

"Bellie!" Jacob Black exclaims blearily and Bella cringes at the nickname. "About time you called. Dad's been asking for you."

"How is he?"

"Same. You know, old," he says through what sounds like a yawn. "Everything all right?"

"Carlisle Cullen is reopening Dad's first case," she states flatly without preamble.

"Again?" She can almost hear him sit up to attention.

"A journalist is working on it, Edward Masen."

"The Wall Street guy? Why?"

"Because he was there. Edward Masen is Elizabeth Masen's son, a once-Cullen secretary. Billy knew her, remember?"

"Ah yes, Bathsheba."

"Who?"

"Bathsheba, the woman King David wanted so he sent her husband to be killed in a faraway battle."

"Masen Sr. wasn't exactly killed."

"No, but his marriage was. A few months after Masen Jr was born, Masen Sr filed for divorce. He never sought custody for his son. That's what Dad remembers."

"She never remarried."

"Didn't have to."

"You think Masen is possibly Cullen's son? Highly improbable."

"But not impossible," Jake says through another yawn.

"Can you look into it?"

"Sure. I'll ask Rachel to pull up some files on Cullen, _senior_," he emphasizes the last word. "By the way, she's dating this loser-cop now, you should come home so we can dig up the dirt on him."

Bella bites her tongue, torn between telling Jake about her faux pas and Edward Masen's resulting visit to her apartment or just dropping it on him later, when she's firmly and beholdenly employed by the man. She knows he'll never let her live it down. Jacob Black is not only her foster brother, he also happens to be her mentor. When Bella came into their family, he'd immediately recognized her affinity for numbers and patterns and proceeded to teach her everything he knew, supplying her with the necessary equipment and training along with the art of concealing herself. It wasn't long before she'd learned everything he had to teach and out hacked him. Jacob Black is considered one of the top hackers in the country and it didn't take long for his protégée, little Isabella Black, to join him in his esteemed little circle.

Jake was also the one who suggested that Bella get a job at Newton Securities, calling in on a favor that Newton Sr. owed Bella's father to get her a position. It had angered him at first, when Newton assigned her on coffee runs and mail delivery but the bastard later got her right. Everything turned out all right in the end as Bella found out she enjoyed her job, enjoyed digging into the lives of other people and exposing the secrets they try to hide. It's an addictive hobby to her, like a computer game, only with real people. But contrary to what had been easily assumed about her, there were lines that she didn't want to cross.

"The last time we did that, Rachel threw all our equipment into the river."

"Fun times." He chuckles when she snorts in disbelief. "And before I forget, when you come home, can you please, _please_, leave your extensive ring collection in the city? Dad suffers a fit whenever he sees you looking like you can be tethered like a cow."

There's silence at the end of the line as Jake sleepily shuffles to his feet.

"It's a nasal septum piercing, it's not for cows."

"I know what it is, Bella. I'm joking."

"It was your idea I get the piercings."

"Well, you didn't have to go overboard. How about a septum retainer? More American-Indian that way."

"Only Shawnee leaders have them, Jake, not Quileutes or much less, Quileute adoptees."

"All right, all right," Jake laughs, used to Bella's stubbornness. "Come as you are then. Just call when you're swinging by."

It takes Bella barely a second to decide. She can take Edward Masen's job offer, what harm can he do? She'd been on her father's case for years anyway. She considers her apartment in Seattle as her base but La Push will always be her home. It would be nice to be working close to home for a change.

"How 'bout I swing by tommorow?"

----

_**So there, the start of something of sorts.**_

_**Let me know what you think. Next update same day next week. **_


	7. want to know you

_**Same disclaimers apply. **_

_**Maylin my beta and everyone who read and reviewed, thank you, thank you, thank you.**_

* * *

**Proof by Contradiction**

The sound of a motorcycle engine breaks the morning silence and Edward peers through the window in time to see a rider in a dark jacket park a dirt bike next to a gray Volvo. Carlisle Cullen had insisted on loaning the car to him for the duration of his stay, telling him that he needed one to get around.

_Of course she'd be riding a motorcycle,_ Edward shakes his head. He should have set the time later. _Poor thing, she'd probably been on the road since before dawn. _ He opens his door just as she's shrugging out of a large backpack.

"You should have taken your time," he greets her, rushing to help her with the bag. "There's no rush."

"You said eight." The reply is short, hard and irritated.

"I was assuming you'd take the bus," he says in way of an apology and she glares at him in offence.

"Are you complaining?"

"No," he gives a nervous laugh before he can stop himself and he swears, he's never met anyone who can be more unnerving with a single glare.

He steals a glance and takes in her appearance. Her bull ring is gone, replaced with a daintier nostril piercing. The eyebrow rings are gone, too. She's leather and black all over – tight jeans, shirt and buckled boots and once again, he finds himself uncharacteristically, but not uncomfortably, mesmerized.

"Welcome to Forks, Black." He gives her a sheepish smile to offset his fluster and leads her to the front door.

She steps into the house, her eyes sweeping over the sparse furniture and modest décor before zeroing in on the evidence wall that he'd put up for himself. More than a third of the wall is covered with clippings, photos, photocopied reports and his handwritten notes. He hasn't been paying attention to how much of the wall he's covered and stands as surprised as she is at how much he'd managed to sort out. She strides to stand next to it and starts to examine his notes in silence.

"I assume we've shared files recently," he says, half hoping that she'd given up the practice of hacking into his system.

"Something like that," she replies without a trace of remorse. Like it's perfectly acceptable that she goes diving into the contents of his private files uninvited and Edward gives her a small smirk. They will have to talk about it, he knows, but clearly not soon.

"Did you find anything yet?" She asks, turning back to his evidence wall.

"Nothing groundbreaking, just a couple of things," he stands beside her in front of the wall and reviews the timeline he's constructed. "The last time anybody saw Alice Cullen was at 5:45pm, the 911 call was at 9:46pm. Usually, the officer would have informed the family to wait for 24 hours before filing a missing persons report but this is the Cullens, Forks' royalty, and a search party was arranged for that night. Alice Cullen had already lost herself in the forest once before and Cullen Sr. was adamant that all police officers were kept on the case."

"But there was an accident that day so it stretched Forks' undermanned police force," she points to a clipping, catching up quickly.

"Eyewitnesses record her whereabouts from early morning onwards. She left the Cullen mansion at 9:45am, went around with her friends, picked a little boy up after lunch. Photographs show her watching the Independence Parade, the boy in tow. They're both enjoying the day and then...this," he points to a photograph. "Around. 4:36am, near an ice cream cart. Everyone is looking up at something in the sky but she has her back turned to them. Eyes open, mouth parted like she's taking a sharp breath, eyebrows raised, nose slightly flared. Classic fear."

"Or merely surprised. According to police reports, and the photographer who took the picture, the flash must have caught her off guard."

"If she'd been surprised, her jaw would have dropped less and her lips and mouth would have been more relaxed," he points out. "It's easy to mistake fear for surprise. Imperceptible at a glance but a world of difference in microexpressions."

"Microexpressions?"

"Involuntary movements of the facial muscles." He'd been staring at the picture ever since he found it. "Found to be instinctive in most cultures."

Bella peers closely at the photograph. True enough, Alice Cullen's face exhibited a tightening around the mouth and eyes which she would have missed if he hadn't pointed them out. What's more, Alice's face was turned 15 to 20 degrees from the center, her eyes fixed to the right of whoever was holding the camera.

She leans back from the wall, looking oddly impressed.

"There were hundreds of photographs taken on that day," Edward moves away to pull a big, nondescript box with several binders marked "Negatives" from under the kitchen table. "The official photographer alone took several dozens. We need to sort them all out. Somewhere in these pictures is the answer as to what spooked her."

"Might not be a what," she looks again at the picture, peering at a blurred landmark in the background.

"Huh?"

Bella removes the picture from the board and peers at it even more closely.

"Do you realize where this was taken?"

He doesn't and before he knows it, he's in the middle of Forks' main street, counting steps and calculating angles – retracing the steps he and Alice had taken 25 years before. The main street, aptly named Main St., is a four-lane concrete road flanked with gas stations, thrift shops, a bank, some mom and pop stores and boutiques. There were a few cars on the street, and even fewer people.

"I thought there'd be more people," Edward says after a few minutes of walking briskly. The street is familiar to him not only from his memories. He'd explored it during the first few days of his stay in Forks.

"It's Sunday," she replies. "People are in church."

_No_, he wants to tell her._ I can hear more people_. But he doesn't, because first, he hadn't heard it when he walked down the street before and second, hearing voices is always not a good sign.

"You know I was that little boy, right?" He asks her instead and she nods.

"They say you don't remember anything."

"They?"

"The others who came before you. Investigators, detectives, spies, psychics, tarot card readers."

"I was never questioned again after the first time."

"That's because you don't remember anything," she says again, as if that explains everything.

Edward stops walking as he catches on what she'd unwittingly told him. There are a lot of things he doesn't know about the girl and he's starting to realize his disadvantage.

"Just how much of this did you know already?"

"As much as you do, probably," she turns back to him. "I read the files."

"You read everything in one day?"

She frowns and Edward gets the distinctive feeling that she doesn't like his line of questioning.

"Something like that." Her face clears and Edward files the range of reaction into his mind – a dismissive lift of the shoulders, a momentary irritation followed by a completely unaffected stance. It seems to be her way of dealing with personal queries.

They come to a spot where she points out the blurred background that she'd recognized as a partially hidden angle of the mountain that looms over Forks' rainforests. Edward watches her as she holds the photograph against the view, trying to find the correct angle from which it was taken. After a few seconds, she turns around, finding the exact spot where Alice Cullen once stood surrounded by ice cream eaters and angles her body to look out towards what the missing girl once saw.

"Interesting."

Edward stands next to her and together they contemplated the scenery. Across the road is a wide expanse of grass, broken by gray stones with names inscribed on them and a large arc proclaiming its name over the entrance: Forks Cemetery. But as Bella is turned slightly to the right, she faces the end of the road.

He stands beside her in the middle of the empty street, trying to grasp the implications and possibilities of her theory. He can hear Bella talk about angles, streetnames, parallels and on and on and he tunes her out, concentrating on the enormity of her discovery.

He'd taken Carlisle's theory that Alice Cullen may have been murdered at face value. But up to now, he never had a compelling reason to believe that she may have had a killer, and that she may have seen that killer at the parade. With him. Only he can't remember. So he stands next to Bella, who stands on the exact spot where Alice Cullen may have stood 25 years ago, and for a moment, he thinks he sees a woman rushing towards them and hears snippets of a disjointed conversation.

_Oh thank God. What happened? I'll drop by tomorrow. Promise._

_Promise._ The word echoes inside his mind and he tries to get to the next piece of information, a word, a face, a gesture, anything. But he comes up with nothing except an unsettled feeling.

"The parade would have turned around here, at this point." He realizes that Bella is still talking, pointing to a spot directly in front of her. "Spectators would have been standing here, there and --."

"Over there," he murmurs to himself, looking towards the direction she is facing. There's no doubt about it, Alice Cullen saw someone, not something, at the moment the photograph was taken. Someone she knew and feared.

"Is the school far from here?" He knows instinctively that it isn't. He knows that it isn't possible that Alice had heard about the vehicular accident at the moment and caused of the horror on her face. The incident might have occurred just a few minutes before but there was no way she could have known about it at that precise moment. The horror should have come later, when she would find out that it was one of her closest friends who got squished by a van.

"A couple of blocks away. Fifteen, twenty minutes by car," she responds and he waits for her to say more, say something, as she'd talked for a good ten minutes since they'd arrived at the place. But as he'd come to half-expect, Isabella Black suddenly lapses into one of her long silences.

"I could use a coffee," she says after a while and he agrees almost at once, wanting to get away from the place as fast as possible. He needs to sort out his thoughts and standing in the middle of the road where something pivotal happened was not helping him.

_I was here_, he wracks his brain again. _If I can only remember._

They walk back to the main street and as distracted as he is, he still notices how Bella seems to know where she's going. There is only one diner in Forks that's open from sunset to sundown. The Carver Cafe sits near one of the town's motels and inns. He'd been there several times before, when he'd ventured into the main part of town during his afternoon walks. Most of the cafe's staff are welcoming, sometimes a little too welcoming, but the food is good and the coffee better.

They squeeze through the door and Edward follows her to the nearest unoccupied table. A waitress, one he'd never seen before, approaches them. Thelma, according to her nametag, drawls out a good morning and proceeds to flirt with him openly as she asks him what he'd like to eat, ignoring the girl he came in with. He's used to it and is usually a little amused with the kind of attention he receives, but this time it annoys him.

"We'd like two coffees. Black, no sugar?" He emphasizes the word _we _and turns to the girl, only to find her staring outside the diner's glass windows. Either she doesn't hear him or she's deliberately ignoring him so he reaches across the table to touch her arm. "Do you want pancakes?"

She responds with a jerk, throwing his hand away from her arm.

"We'll have pancakes," he covers quickly and gives Thelma back the menus with a polite but distant smile. He turns back to find her looking at him curiously. He stares back, trying not to get unnerved again. He blinks first, forgetting his confusions as he concentrates on her.

"Is there something you want to ask me?"

"The microexpression reading, how is it done?" This time, he tries not to show surprise at question.

"Some people study and master it over years. Some are born with the ability."

"Like you," she says and he nods, fully impressed. Only a few people know of his peculiarity, Rose being one of them as she'd spent the longest time with him over the years. But it takes the girl less than three hours in his company to catch him on it. It has served him well, as it has enabled him to detect lies and manipulations in his interviews and investigations. Lately though, his ability hasn't been of much help.

"So you can read people's minds through their expressions?" She's openly curious and he decides that there's no point in denying it.

"Infer, not read."

"Can you read me?"

"Not clearly," he answers her carefully. "There are things that can interfere with natural expressions, like piercings and markings, and some people have the ability to either keep their emotions out of their faces well or respond to stimuli differently from what's considered the normal range."

"Like me," she frowns again. "No need to spare my feelings, Masen. I know I'm a freak."

He frowns back, surprised that she can casually call herself a freak.

"You're not a freak," he says. "You're...interesting."

She snorts at his description before swinging her gaze around the diner.

"How about them?" She nods to a table where four ladies are engaged in what appears to be a lively discussion.

"No need to infer there," he murmurs with faint amusement, "you can hear what they're talking about from here."

"Threads and knits and someone from Buggy Barn Quilts coming over for the Rainfest next year," she murmurs, keeping her eyes down but he sees a ghost of a smirk on her lips. He angles his body to lean close to her.

"The one on the left thinks the one next to her is talking crap, the way she leans back and purses her lips when the other is talking," he whispers and is answered with an amused snort. "The one next to the one talking wants the other to get on with it, the way she keeps glancing to her right...shhh, don't look."

She whips her head back to him at the command and slouches on her seat to hide a derisive snort. Emboldened, he leans closer. From an angle, half his face is covered with hers as he starts on a commentary on the possible thoughts of the people around them.

Slowly, he's rewarded with a thawing of demeanor and expression. A slight crinkling of the eyes, a small upturn of the lips. Then the lips widen and stretches into a smile, then into a grin, showing perfect white teeth. She slips and a low, series of giggles breaks through her lips. She shakes her head, cups her chin with her hand, stealing glances around them. Pretends to tuck her hair behind an ear to give herself an excuse to turn her head as he continues with his commentary.

He keeps his voice neutral, his expression calmly amused as he goes on. He keeps his body angled towards her, close but not too close. Their coffee arrives and he thanks Thelma perfunctorily from his position near Bella's shoulders. Carrying on after the other girl leaves, he continues with his witty observations until her shoulders relax, then shake with suppressed laughter, brushing against him gently. From different angles of the room, he knows that they look like two people sharing a joke or whispering sweet nothings and he dips his head closer, watching her closely.

"The one facing us is not listening at all, and is busy wondering who we are and where we came from. She thinks you're my girlfriend." And I'm a sneaky, dirty old man, he adds silently.

She pulls back, looks at him blankly before bursting into laughter.

"That's funny," she declares without a trace of irony and he straightens himself in his chair, not knowing if he should be amused or insulted by the reaction.

Their breakfast arrive and they eat in silence, comfortable with each other for the first time. As soon as they're done, they leave the diner, leave the bemused patrons guessing as to who and what they are. Starting on the road that would lead them back to his house, they come to a green road sign, with big, white letters proclaiming: City of Forks, Population 3,175

Edwards walks up to it and traces the number seven over the five.

"Plus two. 3,177. At least for ten months or less."

"There's actually 3, 275 people in Forks, as of 2009, 81% are white and only 5% are American Indians," she says from behind him, taking out her pack of cigarettes and lighting one. "And it will only be 3,276. Plus one."

"You're not taking the job?" Disappointment colors his voice. It didn't really occur to him that she'd refuse. "I was really hoping you'd consider it. You're really good. You managed to add a crucial question to the long list of unanswered ones even before lunchtime. If there's anything I can do to make you change your mind –"

"My family lives in La Push," she interrupts. "It's less than thirty minutes from here. I'd like to stay with them while I'm here."

"You grew up here." He states flatly, struck at his own obtuseness. He should have known from her familiarity of the place. He feels his frustration rise at knowing nothing and understanding so little about her.

"No."

"No? For someone who doesn't live here, you seem to know an awful lot about the place. I lived here up until I was seven and I remember nothing." He snaps and gives a small, mirthless laugh. "I forget, you know that already."

"I can't compete with you," he shakes his head when she doesn't say anything. "You know everything about me and I have nothing on you, except your name, your employment and one of your addresses."

"That's a lot," she replies with another shrug. "And I don't know everything about you."

He glances at her, trying to gauge her honesty. She seems oddly unaffected by his mild outburst and embarassment washes over him. _It's not her fault she went digging into your life_, he tells himself. He knows that he's just a subject of one of her investigations and that he really shouldn't take it against her that she did her job extremely well.

"You covered pretty much all the bases," he says after a while. "I don't know if you've left anything out. But if you have, feel free to ask me."

He realizes he's no longer that upset with the fact that Isabella Black knows everything about him. In fact, he is getting more and more comfortable with the idea that she knows everything about him but is unaffected by his personal quirks and choices. The way she treats him without judgment is almost like a favorable indictment, even an unconditional acceptance of sorts. From the time he'd stepped into her apartment up to that moment, the only instances she'd shown irritation at him was when he'd put his foot into his mouth and asked her something personal. He realizes he's more upset with the fact that he knows so little about her.

"Did you ever wonder who paid for Yale?"

"What?" Even her questions suprise him, he muses. "My benefactor? No, never."

"Why?"

"Because I know."

"Really?" She frowns and Edward suddenly grins at her. It would appear that there really are some things Isabella Black doesn't know about him.

"Go on, ask me," he dares. His benefactor had been a secretive man, but he was not a stranger to him. It was he who encouraged Edward's rebellious streak, nudged him towards investigative journalism.

"Did you ever run a check on him?"

"Now why would I do that?" He laughs at the idea. "Not everyone has your invasive streak. Besides, I know him pretty well. He was my high school adviser, taught history during my junior year. The man was nuts about the Civil War."

"When was the last time you saw him?"

"Let me see," he grimaces slightly, not having thought about it for a while and realizing how that reflects on him. "1996?"

"You haven't been in touch with him since then?"

"Not really. He joined the Volunteer Teaching Program after I finished Yale. They go around the country and some places overseas. Why'd you ask?"

"Nothing."

"C'mon, humor me," he says, unwittingly repeating Esme Cullen's words to her. He realizes that her report may have been so thorough that certain parts had incensed him and obscured the fact that she'd left out some things. "Who did you think paid my college tuition? My absentee father? One of my mother's suitors? A rich uncle somewhere?"

"Carlisle Cullen Sr." It is far and away the most random answer that he expects and he can't help but laugh incredulously.

"How the hell did you come up with that? Isabella – "

"Bella," she interrupts. "Just Bella."

"Bella," he tests out the name, finding it appropriate. "Forget I ask how. I am not going to dignify that by asking for an explanation. You have to do better than that or I might just have to fire you."

"There were no other explanations at that time," she explains, defensive. "All other possibilities were simply...not possible."

He laughs again, just to assure her that he's joking.

"How 'bout you? Where'd you go? Forks High?"

"No." The reply is short and cryptic and he finally knows better than to ask her for more information.

"I was home schooled," she offers without prodding. "I don't do crowds well."

She gives him a small, sad smile and Edward Masen is suddenly struck with several things that have been nagging him ever since he stood next to her on that empty street in front of Forks' cemetery.

One, Isabella Black knows more about Alice Cullen's disappearance than she's letting on. Two, there are a lot of things about her that he doesn't know or understand, and three, there is a growing possibility that he just might be a little attracted to her.

-------

_There's a blinkie on my LJ and the codes are at the Twi forum, the awesome squarepancake made it. Read, then review, if you feel like it, tell me what you like and don't like, who you think is Edward's benefactor and we'll meet up on this page sooner than the last time. Cheers!_


	8. Chapter 8

**IT'S BACK!**

**So sorry for taking so long. I have no excuse. You might need to read the last chapter to remember the story though.**

**Just a quick note: The next chapters are going to be short (so I can write them faster) and hopefully, I'll be able to write/post them more regularly so the momentum of the story won't break. I apologize to everyone who started this and was left hanging for so long. **

**For the curious: read the notes at the bottom.**

**Lastly, for Maylin, my beta. I thank the universe that you exist. Get well soon, sweets. **

**-oooooooooooooo-**

7:30.

The numbers blink at him in digital red. He rolls out of bed, squinting at the sun streaming from the nearby window. Everything seems skewed in the early morning light.

He'd stayed up late, scouring through the photos to look for anything that might be different, something he could latch on to - a face, a memory. He'd found nothing, unsurprisingly. If there was something in the pictures, somebody would have found it, scrutinized it, pursued the hell out of it years ago. If he's to find something new, it will be from someplace else.

He makes his way to the bathroom, his brain protesting against being roused so early. It's so silent that he wants to shout just to make some noise. He has to strain his ears to hear the calls of his neighbors as they greet each other good day. Everyone seems to wake up early in small towns.

Trudging downstairs, he thinks of the long day ahead. More pictures to look at, more papers to riffle through. It's a small consolation that he now has some idea of how to proceed, courtesy of Isabella Black's sharp eye. The girl had made her excuses soon after breakfast but promised to return the next day.

It's only when he gets to the landing that he notices the unmistakable aroma of brewing coffee. Peering outside, he sees a black motorcycle parked beside the loaned Volvo.

_This should be interesting. _He'd half-expected her not to show up.

He finds her in the kitchen, a visual aberration amidst the country furniture. Her booted feet are propped on the table, an open Macbook on her lap. Her eyes never leave the screen as her fingers fly furiously over the keyboard. It takes him a moment to recognize the Macbook as his.

"You really should use stronger codes," she says without looking up.

He bites back a retort, a remark at her smart-assedness and overall disregard for his property. It's too early in the morning to be starting an argument with a hacker who seems to have the ethics of a two-year-old child. What's yours is mine, the words echo in his brain. He doesn't even wonder how she got into the locked house.

"Would it have stopped you?"

"No, but it would have stopped everyone else."

"No one else is here," he leans into her, reaches for his Macbook and closes it on her lap. "Except you and me."

She pushes back on the chair, her long, jean-clad legs catching his attention as she swings them off the table.

"I installed Rinaldi encryptions." She stands and hands him his laptop. She'd already transferred his current files to her own, including a report he'd written the night before. "It should do the trick."

She turns her back on him and goes into the living room. He follows her slowly, unable to decide if he should be annoyed or amused by the thought that she can think of protecting his privacy when she's the only real threat to it. Whatever he's thinking flies out of the window as she bends forward to pull out a black, unmarked sub notebook from her backpack on the floor. Her shirt rides up and a wildly intricate tattoo on her hip reveals itself. Black tendrils of smoke curl, etched into her skin, reaching into what's under her jeans. Small prints run parallel to the band of her lowcut jeans, before spiraling upwards towards the direction of her stomach.

She straightens up when she notices his stare. She powers the laptop up, not saying anything.

"I should thank you," he says, tearing his eyes away from her now-covered hip, "but I think we need to agree on what's mine and what's yours."

Brown eyes flicker to his and he notices a slight crinkling around them.

"I have a full lock on your system. I can do whatever I want with it, without you even knowing it," she states matter-of-factly. "And I don't really care what you do or how much money you have or who you have sex with."

He catches the subtle reproach. He should be grateful that she's letting him know that she's inside his system.

"It's just a little unsettling that you not only know who I had sex with, you know how."

She frowns slightly but he can see no apology on her face, only slight confusion.

"Does it matter?"

She's not bluffing. _Judge not, that you be not judged. _He wonders if most hackers share her simplistic ethics.

"I suppose not," he says after a while. It's useless arguing with her. "Have you had breakfast yet?"

She nods once and hunches back in front of her computer to ignore him.

Dismissed, he goes to the kitchen and helps himself to the coffee she brewed. It would take him some time to adjust to her presence. He's used to being alone, even when surrounded by other people. He has colleagues, women, close friends but only two people have a solid presence in his life: his mother and Rose. He doesn't mind the distance some people keep him at but he's never been so casually brushed off before.

_Such a strange little thing._ He can't read her properly. Even under direct scrutiny, she's perfectly composed. She only gives away the barest expressions, the slightest gestures. Everything about her screams deviation but at the same time, she's extremely reserved and self-contained. The tats on her arms and the piercings on her face serve to catch the eye but he suspects all she really wants is to disappear into the background. She hunches, folding her already small frame so as not to take up unnecessary space. It makes her presence feels temporal, like she's liable to disappear any minute.

He finds himself glancing in her direction, just to assure himself that she's really there.

_Must be the water in this town,_ he snorts at his own thoughts.

He focuses on preparing breakfast and tries to leave her alone. From the corner of his eye, he sees her put down her computer and wander towards the boxes of material stacked against the living room wall. She picks up a box, the one he'd turned inside out the night before.

"I went through them yesterday," he calls from the kitchen and her head whips round in attention.

"Did you find anything?"

He detects a contained expectation in her voice.

"Nothing," he says, closely watching her expression. "But you already know that."

She blinks. Clearly, she'd expected him not to guess.

"I went through them a year ago," she admits. "I just thought you'd see them differently or notice something that might help you remember, if you saw photos - put it into context."

"How would you know that I'd remember anything?"

"Haven't you?"

"I remembered Alice when I saw her picture," he concedes. "But there's nothing in those photos in that box. If I was to remember anything, we'd have to look for more."

"We can ask around town, there are probably more pictures that the police have never seen."

"I already did," he gives her a small grin. She might prove to be trouble later, especially with the way he finds himself reacting to her but she is undeniably good. It's good to be working with someone who not only completely understands what he wants to do but might actually even be a few steps ahead of him.

"We can widen the search beyond Forks," she says. "The more photos we have, the more faces we can sift through and we can try to identify each through cross-referencing them with police records."

"Too tedious," he shakes his head. "It might not take us long to gather all the pictures but it will take us months set up a specific database."

"No, it won't," she dismisses and he laughs to cover his unease.

"Bella, I want to make it categorically clear that we are sticking within our limits," he cautions. "No hacking, stealing, breaking into private records to speed things up or for any other reason."

"I'm talking about image synthesis and facial recognition," she answers calmly. "About scanning the photos and running the images through simple coordinate transformation and cross-correlation. The Eigenface method would be the easiest and simplest way to go around it but I can write a code to make a modified 3D model. That way, I can synthesize the images both through linear vertex interpolation and the curve surface fitting method. It would be easier in the long-run instead of manipulating the images into pre-determined head poses that the Eigenfaces require."

He stares at her blankly, lost. There's more to her than an accomplished hacker, he knows, but he can only guess at the intelligence that lurks under the impassive countenance.

"If that's what you want," she adds. "It will cut down the search time considerably but it's going to cost a lot."

"No, you're right," he shakes his head sheepishly. "Of course, we can do that. Just tell me what you need."

She beams at him, like a child offered a new toy.

"I'll work on it right away."

"You want to come with me to pick up some pictures first? One of the other photographers I called last night said I can pick them up this morning."

"I think I'll stay, if you don't mind. Get started with what's already here."

He stops himself before he can ask if she's sure, if she's going to be all right. Alone. In his house. Then he wonders where his sudden and misplaced concern comes from. She's not a kid, she's a 22-year old who can and has been taking care of herself.

"I'll be back around noon," he offers tentatively but all he gets is a nod and an absentminded hum.

On his way out, he throws her a final glance, wanting to tell her to stay put, wait for him until he gets back.

She doesn't even look his way.

**-ooooooo-**

A few missed turns and an hour later, he finds himself in front of Eric Yorkie's door.

"My name's Edward Masen, I called last night," he greets the man in his late forties who answers his knock.

"Yes, yes, of course," the other man shakes his hand, a little too enthusiastically. "Edward Masen, good lord, how long has it been? You probably don't remember me. I'm Eric Yorkie, a friend of Alice. Are you back here in Forks for good? A lot of Fork's youngsters are now finding it a good place to settle down."

The man continues to talk as he leads Edward into the house.

"I'm only staying for the investigation," he cuts in on the older man's musings. "I understand you have photographs that might be of some use."

"Not me, my father," he leads Edward towards the kitchen. On top of the kitchen table are two boxes. "Take them. It's all that's left. I've given most of them to the police and Carlisle Cullen over the years. So you're going to try to find out what happened to Alice? Good, good."

He skims through the pictures. There are only a handful of photos that show the Independence parade. Most of the other photographs are of various outings and trips, school events and church activities. Most, if not all, have Eric Yorkie in them. An only child, Edward deduces, remembering the countless times his own mother had made him pose for family events. The pictures, however, provide a glimpse not only of his carefree childhood but those of his peers as well.

At the back of one picture is a list of names: Angela, Eric, Jessica, Tyler, Alice. No Jasper. He takes another and turns it over. Still no Jasper.

"Did you know Jasper Whitlock?"

"As much as anyone else, I guess. He mostly kept to himself."

"Do you think there's a picture of him here, somewhere?" He hadn't seen one among the photographs in his possession. "A yearbook or something?"

"He didn't finish the entire year so he's not in any of ours. Alice took lots of photos but she burned most of them when he left."

"What did he look like?"

Eric looks at him curiously before answering.

"Tall, about 6'2". Sandy blond hair, really good looking. Had the ladies swooning but it had always been Alice from the start."

"Aside from Alice, did he get along with anybody else?"

He doesn't have to ask. All the information that he wants has already been written and recorded in countless police and private detectives' reports. All of them got the same answers, all the same. There are no holes, no gray spots, no inconsistencies. Everyone knew Jasper but no one has any documented evidence that he existed. Even his records from the school disappeared, burned as a fire razed the principal's office a few months after he left.

"He got along with everybody just fine," Eric says. "Especially with you and Alice. There were times that you were with him almost every day. Alice would insist that they took you every chance they got since your mother was under a lot of pressure then. They'd take you to the mall, to the mansion or stay with you at your house. Some days, you three would go camping in the woods."

Edward goes completely still at the mention of the woods. He doesn't know if it's the chilly air, the older man's quiet voice or the house's quaint ambiance but he feels suspended, locked in a place that's strangely familiar.

"Alice loved camping but I think it was more because Jasper and his foster parents went camping a lot."

_He's walking on a small, dirt road with his left hand firmly ensconced in Alice hand. He smiles up at her, happy. She smiles back. He turns to the other side. Somebody else is holding his right hand but he can't be too sure who. The sun is directly behind whoever it is, shadowing his face. He knows it's a man, though, since his hand holds his smaller one in a firm, masculine grip. The man's hands are cold, colder than Alice's but he doesn't wonder.  
_

"She used to say that if you take the Route 10 and walk a couple of miles into the woods, you'd come across a small meadow."

_The meadow is not vast but it's certainly not small. Little flowers blanket the ground in purple. They're freesias, he hears the man say. Where did those come from? Alice asks him. _

_He twists away from the two teenager and runs to the edge, ignoring their calls. Come back here, Edward! She's laughing and so happy and he turns back to give them a wave. He squints his eyes as the man seems to shine as brightly as the sun. He can't see him clearly but it doesn't matter. Alice is standing beside him, her arms wrapped around him and he can see her just fine. _

"She used to take you there even after Jasper left."

_The flowers are gone. The meadow is nothing but a barren space of mud and dead weeds. He grips Alice's hand with both of his, seeing that she's on the verge of crying. _

"_Let's just go home, Alice."_

_The wind feels the same, even the tress smell the same. But everything else is gone. A small gust of wind swirls around and suddenly, they are not alone. _

_I can't believe he left you._

"They said that you don't remember." The other man's voice cuts through his thoughts and Edward is pulled back to where he is with a start.

He shakes his head, willing the surreal images away. "I'm afraid so."

"It's a real mystery that you don't."

"I know..." Edward murmurs, staring into the distance. He can't believe he let his mind wander so easily. He used to daydream a lot when he was a kid. But whenever he'd tell his mother about it, he'd earn a sharp rap on the knuckles or a quick cut of her tongue. Other than her, he'd never told anyone of his flights of fancy. Over the years, he lost the ability to daydream as other pressing matters occupied him.

He looks at Eric, ready to apologize for zoning out. But the other man is staring outside the window, busy with his own memories. Edward doesn't know what to say anymore so he thanks him instead, genuinely grateful. He takes the boxes and turns to leave.

"Glad to be of help," Eric replies absentmindedly, still lost in his thoughts.

**-ooooooooo-**

"Thank you, Luisa." Carlisle dismisses her and turns to look at Edward. He'd been pleasantly surprised when Luisa told him the younger man was outside, asking for him.

"To what do I owe this visit?"

"I was in the neighborhood," Edward says. "I went to see Eric Yorkie, to pick up a few photos."

"Anything new?"

"Nothing yet but Newton's investigator arrived yesterday and she came up with a strong hunch that's worth checking."

"Ah, yes, the Swan girl."

Edward frowns. "Her name's Isabella Black."

"The Blacks are Quileutes, Edward. Isabella is not. She's adopted."

"What?" It takes him a few seconds to connect the titbit with his suspicions. Her familiarity with the town, with the documents, with the theories and speculations. Edward doesn't have to wrack his brain long before a news item burns in his mind.

"Detective Charlie Swan," he says aloud. "Survived by his wife and only daughter, Isabella Marie Swan. Damn, how could I have missed that?"

"In your defense," Carlisle chuckles. "She's not very forthcoming with herself. But, she is very, very good with what she does."

"I suppose she is," he says, trying not to sound too derisive. "Or else she wouldn't have been able to give you enough ammunition to draw me in. If she's that good, why didn't you just hire her directly?"

"We wanted to but we doubted that she would have accepted the job. She blames us, rightfully to a certain degree, for her father's death and her mother's eventual insanity. She was three when her father was murdered while pursuing a lead on Alice's case."

"So you sent her after me instead, using Newton as a buffer. Then you set me up so I'd be sufficiently intrigued and hire her for you."

"I knew you'd come to appreciate her skills as we do."

"She saw the potential of the boy who knew Alice, a blatant omission from all previous investigations, so she agreed. I find out what happened to Alice and she brings closure to her father's death. You wanted someone who's invested in this thoroughly, not just out of curiosity."

"I wanted motivation, yes," Carlisle admits, "but more than that, I wanted you to work together. You and she share a common tragedy, Edward, one that forced you out of Forks before your time. Alice's disappearance set into motion events that changed your young lives and brought you to where you are now. She can help you, in ways that I'm sure you'll discover later. In a sense, my family has been waiting for 25 years for this. You're both here now and that's all that matters."

**-oooooooooooo-**

**Some more notes for anyone who's asked:**

**Alice disappeared when Edward was seven so 25 years later, he'd be 32. Bella is 22 so Edward would have left Forks before she was born. He's not twice her age. She just looks 15, for reasons that Edward will discover later. Charlie Swan dies when Bella is three, six years after Alice disappears. **

**Reviews are love, or so I've been told. To everyone who's been following the story out of curiosity and reviewing, thank you. You are all such beautiful creatures.**

**Next: Edward confronts Bella. Will she deny her part in the deception and her past? **


	9. Chapter 9

**To Maylin, with best wishes. Get well soon.**

**----------oooooooooooo------------**

(con't)

He finds her working in the garden, hunched over her computer.

"When were you going to tell me?"

She looks up, startled. He's standing over her, an open folder in his hands.

"Tell you what?"

"Detective Charlie Swan is survived by his wife, Renee and three year old daughter, Isabella Marie Swan," he reads from a clipping and drops an entire folder in her lap. "Isabella Swan, sentenced to two years in juvenile detention for setting fire tothe house of one Phil Dwyer, listed as her foster parent."

"Where'd you get this?" Her name is inscribed on the side of the folder.

"Kicked from foster home number eight at 12 for theft, foster home number nine for arson at 13. You were in lock-up for two years. Who locks up a 13-year old child?"

"So the Cullen's did keep physical copies of my record..." Her tone is slightly sardonic but calm as she skims through the folder.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"You didn't ask."

"If I had, were you going to tell me?"

"What did you want to know?"

"Who are you, really?"

"You already know that." She throws the folder to him, forcing him to take it back. "You can read it there, if you're interested in that kind of crap."

"The records are only until the Blacks adopted you at 16," he points out. "Beyond that, there's nothing, no trace of Isabella Swan."

"What's there to add? Billy changed my name to Black when he adopted me legally. I was home schooled, I didn't go to college. I worked in my brother's shop before getting hired by Newton."

Dismissive, he observes. She's not surprised to be outed at all, as if she knew it was only a matter of time before he knows everything. He sinks into the chair opposite her, sighing.

"How long have you known what Carlisle wanted me for?"

"Since Newton assigned me your case."

"And still, you agreed to do his dirty work."

"I was curious about you," she admits. "It really didn't matter to me what they wanted you for. It's none of my business."

"Did you include that hacked statement in your report on purpose?"

"To catch your attention and insert myself into your investigation?" She snorts, shaking her head a little. "I don't have to be here, talking to you, to know what you're doing. Besides, if you'd gone to Newton with it, he would have fired me and that's not exactly high on my priorities right now."

The idea is ridiculous but he had to be sure. He wants to know if they were on an equal footing vis-a-vis Carlisle Cullen.

"Doesn't it bother you? Cullen is not only manipulating me, he's on to you, too."

"Cullen has his own motives. As you have yours."

"What would you know about that?"

"More than you think," she says, leaning back on her seat. She folds her hands on her lap, like a prim schoolgirl and looks at him expectantly.

_She's daring me to ask her so she can start laying down her conditions. _He has no doubts she knows far more than he suspects or even what he has already put together. He stares at her, stubbornly silent. He can't believe he's been so gullible as to fall so deeply into the trap.

A minute passes before he notices slight changes. A small crease appears on her forehead and her mouth thins slightly. Impatience. She tugs on her ear, her hands disengaging. Indecision. Show him something or not. Tell him something potentially offsetting. Trust him or not. She frowns deeply, takes a deep breath. Decision made.

She sits up and swivels the screen of her laptop, one of those new models with modified hinges, so he's facing the screen. Presses a key.

A small, static window appears on screen. It clears, showing a bird's eye view of a wide, well-lit room without windows. A long table spans the entire space with chairs surrounding it. A figure walks in, places several folders on the table. Walks out. Men in suits start streaming in, their voices muted but comprehensible. Edward recognizes the men as Aro's closest associates and peers into the screen closer. The man himself walks into the screen a second later.

Before he can get a better look, Bella presses another key and the screen dissolves. She leans back and looks at him, unsmiling. There is nothing on her face anymore, not a flicker of expression or emotion, that he can latch on and read.

"The day I turned over my report on you, Esme hired me to do another investigation. A cold case, over-investigated but she promised Newton a flexible timeframe and limitless funding. I started on it right away, thinking it would be hard. Turns out it was pretty easy. The man she wanted investigated had hundreds of shady connections. It took me only two days to find a weak link and get into his system."

"She hired you to spy on Aro Volturi." He states it like a given fact.

She nods. "But on the night before you came into my apartment, Newton called to pull the plug. No explanations and no questions. He didn't ask that I turn over anything or return the funds that Esme Cullen had already transferred to my account so I didn't."

"She's not asking you to stop," he frowns. "but to continue without a legally binding contract. Why?"

"To give me free rein."

"To do what?"

"To do what I do best," she answers. "Forks is a small town and the Cullens have long known Jake is a hacker. It's not very hard to figure out that I'd be one, too, being home schooled by him and Rachel. If she turns me loose, I can do whatever I want, without Newton's limits and regulations. Very clever, if I may say so."

A sudden concern washes over him, overriding the rising outrage at the Cullens' manipulation.

"But essentially dangerous. When Volturi discovers one of your hacks and traces it back to you, you're on your own. There's no one to back you up."

"If, not when, they catch me," she replies calmly, "it won't matter if I was under contract or not."

"Unless they wanted me in the boat with you," he murmurs. "Instead of being dragged into a potentially disastrous mess, they give you the time and money to follow on a lead and throw us together, hoping that we'll work it out between ourselves."

He can't believe Carlisle would be so devious as to drag an innocent girl into the center of the war he's waging against Volturi and be so underhanded as to bait him into agreeing to something he'd never even consider if it came from someone else.

"So it's a set-up," she shrugs. "It doesn't matter. I can and will help you bring Aro Volturi down if you let me."

"And if I don't?"

One pierced eyebrow raises.

"Then I work on it alone."

"No, hell no." He laughs out loud in disbelief.

Carlisle knows, as she does, that he'd never let anyone work on the Volturi case for him again. He left the Review and Rose to take the heat off them. He's going to jail because he refuses to divulge his original source, giving up the only defense he has against the libel suit. Whatever he is, he's not one to let other people fight his battles for him.

"You are doing exactly what they want you to do. They need you to convince me to condone an investigation that uses methods that go against every written and unwritten rule of every journalistic committee."

"I have no interest whatsoever in what Cullen thinks or wants," she says quietly but underneath, he can sense her anger rising. She reaches for her pack of cigarettes instead, pulls a stick out and lights up. "Aro Volturi is a gangster, a hoodlum in a suit. He doesn't deserve your respect and he doesn't need to be handled with integrity. He's got a finger in every dirty pie – drugs, prostitution, human smuggling, you name it. His companies are fronts for his rings. He's nothing but a dirty, lying lowlife who has no regard for anyone or anything other than himself."

He stares at her, surprised at the intensity of her hate. He notes the strong set of her jaw, the flashing brown eyes, the determined pull of her lips.

"You said you didn't care what your subjects do."

"I don't," she confirms. "As long as what they do concerns only themselves and is not harmful to others. There are just some things men should never be allowed to do. I don't need committees to know that. "

"What you do is different from what I do," he argues. "So unless you get hard evidence and willing witnesses, there's nothing for us to talk about. Anything you come up with will be useless if it's not admissible in court. I need documents, reports, emails. Anything tangible on paper or tape."

"There will be more than enough evidence."

"The risks are too high," he insists. "Volturi is one of the most well entrenched hoodlums in the country. He has all the necessary connections to make your life a living hell. The only thing that has protected me from him up to now is the fact that everyone knows he's out for my blood and if he so much as touches me, he'd have to answer for a whole lot and for a bastard like me, that's too much of a hassle. If he so much as catches a whiff of you digging around, which he will eventually, he won't hesitate to cut you, and whoever you've tapped, down."

"He'll have to know first before he can catch anyone," she gives him a tight smile. "But thank you for the vote of confidence."

The quiet assurance and underlying tenacity stop him. She's deadly serious, he realizes, and there's nothing he can do about it.

She knows exactly how he thinks and what his decision will ultimately be. If he says yes, he'd be knowingly risking her life. But if he said no, he'd be more than the biggest ass alive. He'd be a coward.

She's not doing it for you, a voice inside his head mocks him. She's doing it for herself, it's a part of who she is. She's a highly intelligent, efficient and able human being governed by her own set of rules and principles. Always a dangerous combination.

He looks her over frankly, assessing her without bothering to hide his interest. His own personal devil on the form of a pretty girl, semi-slouched on one of his garden chairs. Her lithe body, outlined by dark, fitted clothes emanates a dark warmth, deeply seductive. Tempting him, offering him what he wants in exchange for his memories.

A small smile graces her lips, metal clashing against the soft bows. He'd noticed the barbell inside her mouth when she'd talked earlier, poised above her tongue and wonders, with increasing urgency, how it would feel if he kissed that smirk off her mouth.

She'd tied her hair to a small knot at the back of her head, leaving several rings on both ears gleaming under the afternoon sun. A tattoo on her neck, creeping down her back. A series of prints on her arm. He's certain he'll have another, longer opportunity to look at the prints on her hip and a little below her waist, dipping inside where his hands would like to be.

She squares her shoulders under his scrutiny and his eyes are drawn downwards. The snug shirt strains backwards and a shadow takes shape under the fabric. A ring. On her breast. _Metal against flesh. _His mouth dries suddenly and he swallows.

He drags his eyes up.

It's time he stated his conditions.

"I want you to understand that you don't need to do this," he says, choosing his words carefully.

"So you say," she replies, catching the very fine line between the ambiguous "don't need" and the more simple "don't."

"It's not safe," he emphasizes and she nods.

"Nothing will be traced back to me or to you. I will withdraw my crawlers immediately and abandon the investigation at the slightest hint that they are in danger of detection."

"You stay here, with me, as long as needed."

She blinks at the unexpected and whimsical requirement and he gives her a tight smile, daring her to disagree.

He can tell her that it's better if she stays so things will go faster if she's not bothered with coming in and going out. He can say that it would be easier for both of them if she did all her work for both cases within the same space so she can run her data past him any time.

He can but he doesn't because saying so would be a lie and so far, there had been a hundred secrets between them but no lies. He wants her to stay so he can keep an eye on her, trap her within the walls of the small house where he has exiled himself, inside the world that's rapidly spinning out of his control.

He wants her there, every minute, every second. Hunched in front of her computer in the living room, her feet propped on the kitchen table, sleeping in the bedroom next to his, inside the shower stall that he uses. He tells himself he's playing with fire but knows that he's already passed the line where he can shake his head, appreciate the scenery, move on and away. He can already see her in his mind, sprawled under him, her hair against the white cotton sheets of his bed, laughing up at him sardonically. He wants her with frightening intensity.

He shifts on his seat, suddenly uncomfortable.

"That's not going to be a problem, is it?"

**--------ooooooooooooo----------**

**Let's hope not.  
**


	10. Chapter 10

**Thanks to Maylin, my beta, and all those who reviewed. **

-ooooooooooooooooo-

((h))

"That's not going to be a problem, is it?" His voice is deep, husky, as he stares her down and Bella knows just what it means. She'd heard his quick intake of breath when she shifted, watched him swallow with difficulty.

She's familiar with the look. Her boss, Mike Newton, occasionally gives her that look. And there are the others. Men from Newton's office, boys in La Push, a friend of Rachel's, a random male around town.

She loathes it. She can take a mild ogle but not a skin-crawling leer. Rachel's words, the voice of reason, filters into her consciousness.

_If someone makes you uncomfortable, just move away. _

Strangely, the man across from her doesn't stir her anger or discomfort even as he stares at her so brazenly. She knows he's honorable enough not to make a wrong move. His history of sexual pursuits has shown them all to have been mutual, even with his more unconventional partners. She can count on him always to do the right thing. Even if it's a wrong one.

She can ogle back. He's practically inviting it, but she's only very rarely drawn by anything physical. She's had minor attractions over the years but she's given up analyzing the ambiguities that go along with it. The idea of sex holds little appeal to her.

She slouches forward and gives him a polite smile, acknowledging his interest but not encouraging it.

"No problem."

She's not given to small talk or meaningless reassurances. What she'd said about Aro Volturi wasn't a pitch meant to convince him. When her crawlers had transmitted back initial information about the man, she'd been appalled, then horrified and finally, outraged. The more she knew about Aro Volturi, the stronger her hate grew.

She doesn't make idle threats. When she said she'd go after Volturi herself if he refused to help her, she'd meant it. Rules and laws are well and good but she can't stand and watch silently when confronted with atrocities and gross violations, even if they're not against her.

There are things men should never be allowed to do. Especially to children.

Bella swivels the screen of her laptop and focuses all her attention on it, ending the conversation. She busies herself shuffling documents on the table and ignores him.

Edward sits back, rebuffed and slightly puzzled.

"I want you to look at something," she shifts to her "professional" mode, telling him clearly where they are at that point.

She pulls a binder full of photos from her side and skims through the contents. She stops on a page and hands it to him.

"It's a clearing a few miles south. It's where my father's body was found, a day after he was murdered. Do you recognize it?"

Edward looks down at the photo in front of him and a wave of dread, like a bucket of cold water, washes over him.

_Does he?_

It's a photo of a clearing, muddy and grassless.

She pulls another binder, finds another picture, a 6 x ll print, and puts it beside the first one.

"This is what Carlisle Cullen received in 1995." A picture of a cluster of purple flowers, with a background too blurry to identify.

She puts both pictures side by side, goes back to her laptop and types in a series of characters and numbers. She pats the chair closer to her, inviting him to sit closer, and he shifts so he's beside her. Both photos flash on the screen. While the first one is clear, the second is rendering itself onscreen, its lines sharpening. The focus clears and slowly, the shape of a large rock in the background, jagged and unmistakable, is revealed.

"I ran them both through the curve surface fitting program I have on hand and got this." Color and texture on both photos is discarded, leaving jagged lines on the screen. The photos then shift, and overlap each other. Bella directs him to a pattern on the screen showing a jumble of curve lines and shapes. He's not sure what he's looking at until she zooms where vectors intersect and overlay each other. "It's the same rock, I think, from the same clearing."

The pictures are taken from different angles but with 3D rendering, the rock is converted into a photorealistic image, simulated by bouncing translucent light against it.

"The second photo is marked "unidentified," Bella explains. "There was no technology yet to enhance it digitally at that time."

_Does he know it?_

A few hours ago, Edward saw it. In his mind, standing next to Eric Yorkie. He'd been too caught up with the vision to notice the details but he's almost sure that if he saw the clearing, he'd be able to remember.

"There's only one way to find out," he says quietly. He's distracted but not so distracted as not to notice how easily she'd deflected attention from herself.

"It's in Quileute land. I can call my brother to take us there tomorrow if the weather holds up," she offers. "It will probably take us hours to get there, that part of the forest has been closed even to hunting for ten years."

"Too slow," he shakes his head and reaches for his phone. He dials a number and asks to be connected to Carlisle Cullen.

"I need a chopper," he says without greeting. "There's a clearing south, southwest of town that I need to see this afternoon."

"Where Charlie Swan's body was found, yes. Turns out one of your pictures, 1995, is of the place."

"Three hours?" He looks at his watch. It was already mid-afternoon. "It'll be dark by then. How about tomorrow?"

"If the weather holds, yes."

"Tomorrow then."

He concludes his conversation with Carlisle and finds her watching him warily.

"That ok with you?"

She nods, reluctant.

"I still say we take Jake. Who knows what's out there."

-ooooooooooooooooo-

Rain poured and the fog refused to lift throughout the next day, leaving Edward chaffing at the delay. His frustration only lifts when Bella returns, bringing cases of electronic equipment with her, half of which he doesn't recognize. She sets up shop in the living room, littering the space with gadgets and receptors. Within hours, the space goes from elderly rec room to something out of a mini-sci-fi show.

A large flatscreen dominates one wall, attached to several scanning machines. When he'd jokingly asked her how many seconds it takes for her machine to do a "cool trick" of matching faces, she'd told him she's not from a TV show.

The rain continues through the next day and the day after. Bella keeps busy working on her program and scanning picture after picture while Edward drifts from day to day, distracted by her presence. He leaves her alone as she never asks for assistance or his help on anything.

On the fourth day, he decides he's had enough of his own indirection and goes back to scouring through other investigations. It's still his job to check all the reports for inconsistencies.

Through the next days, he stays on his side of the house while she stays on hers. Despite the intimate set-up, their interaction is limited as each goes about their business.

But he does discover several things about her.

She taps her fingers on her leg when she's confounded with an equation and curses softly, the only time he hears her do so. She knows where all her gadgets are and documents she's gone through and can point them out to him without hesitation, even in the increasingly disorganised pile. Her equipment is laid out around her haphazardly, giving the impression that everything is in disarray, but she works methodically and with single-minded intensity.

She's a finicky eater who hardly eats breakfast. She can even go through the day without eating, unless he reminds her. She doesn't cook. The only thing she can do is brew coffee, which she does compulsively. She nibbles on something first before eating either a spoonful or two servings depending on how she likes what he cooks. She eats anything with ketchup.

She stays up even later than he does and is usually up before he wakes at ten. She sleeps, as he himself saw her sprawled across the tiny bed of the small bedroom next to his on the third morning. Her compulsive streak drives her to finish whatever she's working on into the next day.

Humor is not one of her strongest suits but he can make her laugh, sometimes unwittingly.

Slowly, they settle into an almost domestic, blissfully neutral routine.

He's cursing the infernal silence on the morning of the seventh day when he gets Carlisle's call, informing him cheerfully of the day's weather forecast and that the helicopter will be waiting for them in the clearing in front of Fork's National High.

"We go today," he tells her when he goes down to breakfast a few minutes later.

"I'll call Jake."

She makes the call outside, out of earshot so he observes her instead. The call is brief, just a transmission of schedules but he sees her laugh and shake her head, like somebody on the other end is teasing her.

"He'll be there." She's as curt as he is. "Thirty minutes."

They take the Volvo, her camera and the surveying equipment he bought online while waiting for the skies to clear. The helicopter is already landing, its giant blades blowing everything out of its way, when they get out of the car.

Across the parking lot, he sees a man lope towards them. Tall, early thirties, tanned, long straight hair. Quileute.

There is no way that this man is Bella's biological brother.

"Jake," the man greets him, hand extended for a shake.

"Edward." He grips the man's hand. Strong, confident. Steel under the affable appearance. A complete contrast to his foster sister. Not at all what he expected of a hacker. "Good to meet you."

He means it. This is the man who semi-raised Bella, home schooled her, taught her what she knows.

"You ready, Bells?" Bella is standing on the other side of the car, staring at the helicopter warily. "Too noisy?"

She nods once and Jake pulls something out of his bag, goes to her side and snaps it over her head. A pair of earmuffs for noise reduction.

She can't stand loud noises, Edward notes in surprise. Why didn't she say so?

"Better now?" Her face clears a little and she nods again.

Jake grabs her hand and pulls her towards the waiting helicopter. She follows, staying close behind him.

"She can't stand loud noises," Jake shouts to Edward over the noise, pointing out the obvious, as the wind assaults their bodies.

Jake helps Bella to the helicopter, pulls out a seat for her and straps her in before strapping himself. He pulls off her earmuffs and snaps the helicopter's headset on her ears.

This is taking so much out of her, Edward realizes, suddenly regretting the trip. She's too silent, too meek. He should have asked first.

"Are you all right?"

"She'll be fine." Jake answers for her.

Edward wants to cancel the trip but knows it's already too late.

"It's all alright, really," Jake says as he notices Edward's worried expression. "This is fine. Just hold on for a few minutes. Ok, Bells?"

Bells. Like chimes in a dream. Somehow it fits her too.

She nods, gripping the harness keeping her to her seat so hard her knuckles stand out.

"Rachel wanted to come," Jake tells her and she nods again. "But Leah's still sort of out of it and she can't leave her. She told me to give this to you."

Jake pulls out a brown paper bag from his backpack. A plane barf bag. She laughs a little, her discomfort easing and Edward listens as Jake continues to talk to her with a deliberate upbeat tone. He listens as he tells her about Rachel and Leah and Dad. About how Dad's faring, his fever better that morning. How he drank orange juice. Mundane little details.

"Did you call that doctor I told you about?" She asks suddenly. "We can bring him to Seattle this weekend."

Jake's answers and her questions filter through the headset. Over the almost half hour they spend airborne, Jake and Bella's upbeat, random conversation – designed to distract and ease her anxiety – gives Edward more information than the total seven days they'd spent together in close quarters. Mundane little details and he listens in to every word.

She has a foster sister, or possibly two. One of them is nursing a broken heart, courtesy of someone named Sam. Her foster father is sick, possibly dying.

He feels like an ass. He shouldn't have bulldozed her into staying with him.

As Bella nods along, her grip on her harness loosens and he can plainly see why she insisted on Jake coming. He calms her. He'd been with her through rough times and knows exactly what to do and what to say. Her affection for him is apparent and he returns it a thousand fold. Brother and sister, despite the difference in blood. He feels a slight pang of envy. He'd never known a sibling's love.

A larger part, he recognizes strangely as jealousy. He wonders if she'd give him a chance to know her enough to hold her up when she's weak.

"We're near," the pilot announces. "I'll look for someplace to land."

There's only one place that's wide enough for a chopper, Edward knows, and that's the clearing. The helicopter starts its descent and he tears his attention away from Jake and Bella to look down. He sees nothing but tips of trees for a while before seeing the wide space. Even from above, he can feel an inexplicable pull.

The helicopter touches ground and Jake removes Bella's headset before snapping back the mufflers over her ears. He pulls her down and starts leading her away.

Edward jumps down and as his feet hit the ground, a deluge of sounds, loud, urgent in his ears, drowns out the helicopter's blades.

_Get him down right now, Jasper!_

_You want to get down, little man?_

_The wind is on his face, against his ears. Chilly and fast. He wants to open his eyes but the wind is on themtoo, so he can only see the man whose back he's riding through slits. Sandy-blonde hair and wide ears. Gleaming white teeth when he turns to him and smiles. _

_I'm not joking, dammit. Alice again._

"_He won't fall," the other one laughs. "Trust me."_

_Edward does. He grips the man's neck and he's flying again. Through the trees, bouncing against the branches, so fast that he can't see anything. He squees, laughing happily, his small arms gripping the man's wide shoulders. It's over too soon and he looks down, sees Alice. She's not smiling but she's not screaming at them anymore either. _

_One more, one more, he urges the man. _

_The man laughs, a tinkling melodious sound. He jumps and Edward's head spins as the trees around him start to blend into each other._

"Are you all right? Edward, are you all right?"

A hand is around his shoulder, steadying him. He looks up and sees the slightly concerned face of Jacob Black and realizes that he's on his knees, ready to topple over.

"What happened?" His throat feels dry.

"You stumbled. C'mon, let's get you to the trees."

Edward leans on him, letting the other man lead him to the edge of the clearing. He can see Bella from a distance, walking alone, the mufflers still on her ears.

x

x

-ooooooooooooooooo-

**:) Sorry guys, no jumping each other's bones just yet. There's still the mystery to solve. (;**

**Thanks for reading!**_  
_


	11. Chapter 11

**To Maylin, my beta, thanks and lots of hugs from my side of the world. **

**To everyone who've read and left kind words, can I fangirl squee over all your reviews? I love them all.**

**Notes at the bottom.**

**Best viewed with story width set at 1/2 (select at top right of ffnet's page)  
**

**-oOo-**

_A hand is around his shoulder, steadying him. He looks up and sees the slightly concerned face of Jacob Black and realizes that he's on his knees, ready to topple over._

_"What happened?" His throat feels dry._

_"You stumbled. C'mon, let's get you to the trees."_

_Edward leans on him, letting the other man lead him to the edge of the clearing. He can see Bella from a distance, walking alone, the mufflers still on her ears._

_-ooo-  
_

"Are you all right?" She asks when he catches up with her.

"Been better," he answers, grimacing at the taste of bile in his mouth.

They wait on the edge of the clearing until the chopper's blades slow down and the giant gusts of wind become nothing more than slight whoosh sounds.

"Do you feel like you've been here before?"

She's just thinking out loud, he tells himself, but he refuses to lie so he doesn't answer.

"My father's body was found there." She points to a location to their right where a moss-covered rock juts amidst the overgrowth of ferns.

Edward had seen pictures of Detective Swan in gruesome repose. Mauled to death, his back was broken, his neck at an awkward angle, his blood spilled carelessly all over the moss-covered rock. If not for the bullet between his eyes, his death would have been written off as an unfortunate animal attack. In deference to his widow, who was slowly going insane, Det. Swan's body was buried quickly and quietly. The police didn't conduct an autopsy.

"The other photo was taken there." Bella points out a spot in the opposite direction – a nondescript area in the middle of the clearing.

She picks up the survey equipment and starts walking towards it, counting her steps. A couple of meters away, she stops and puts down the cradle and dash mount for the camera.

Working silently and efficiently, she sets up the equipment and begins taking photos of the area, covering it from different angles. He follows her movements, aware that he's staring openly, something he seems to be doing a lot. . She sees him staring and motions for him to come over.

"See that?" She points out the jagged rock across from them when he's near enough. "Same rock."

If not for Jake and the pilot, whom he sees heading towards the other side of the place, Edward would swear he's inside his head again. The trees are the same, draped and drowned by their moss-covering. The trunks, the branches are all green. Ferns dot the forest floor.

"A bit lower," he replies. The picture he remembers is a wide-angled shot showing a partial portion of the sky. He puts his hands on his knees and bends low, approximating what his own height would have been when he was seven.

"_You!" Alice cries in surprised pleasure and Edward's heart starts to beat furiously in his ears. _

_A motionless figure, still and pallid, stands before them. Black hair braided into thick ropes, a friendly almost shy smile. _

_Edward grips Alice's hand with both of his and begs her silently. Don't talk to him. He's not like the others. _

"_Alice?" He can hear the surprise in the man's voice. _

"_What are you doing here?" Alice asks, her brain addled by her melancholy, refusing to heed danger and dwelling only with the useless fact that one of them remembers her name._

"_I've been looking for you." _

"_Run, Alice, let's run now," he pleads, even knowing it's already too late. Not only can the man outrun them, he can fly. He sends a fervent prayer to whoever's listening. _

"_I can not believe he left you."_

_Lie, he pleads to her with his eyes. If he grips her hand any stronger, he would break it. _

"_They're outside the state, visiting friends. If you know what I mean." She laughs nervously._

"_Do they visit often?" The man's tone is guarded but he can read the calculation on his face. _

"_Uh, yeah. Now and again. Time seems longer to me, I suppose..." She trails off, wistful._

_Lie better, Edward pleads again. _

"_How was Alaska?" Alice tries to deflect and the man answers her queries. It's surreal, the conversation. About a Denali, some sisters, restrictions and his hardships._

"_Sometimes, I cheat." The man smiles thinly._

"_Jasper has problems with that too. Although he's really, really careful. Did Victoria find you?"_

"_Yes." The man's smile is as pleasant as ever. "I actually came here as a favor to her." The smileagain. "I think she won't be too happy about this." _

"_About what?"_

"_About me killing you"._

_The man pounces, moving too fast for Edward's eyes, like a strong gust of wind. In the blink of an eye, he's no longer holding Alice's hand. He looks back and sees Alice on the ground, the man towering over her. He reaches down, pulls her up by her neck. Her feet dangle frantically under her. . _

"_Runnnnnn," Alice chokes out._

_A huge fist seems to be lodged around his throat but he opens his lips anyway. He takes in a lungful of air and braces himself._

_No sound comes out of his mouth as his own sob _

"Edward!" A faint voice is calling him and shaking his shoulders again. "Edward!"

He's on his knees, breathing raggedly, his gasps loud in his ears.

He can't breath, can't see. His tongue feels swollen, like that time when he was six and a bee stung him on the lips.

One hand is pressed flat on the ground, the other around someone's shoulder.

Bella. She's holding him loosely, letting him lean on her. She twists slightly but he tightens his hold, like he expects her to bolt.

"Jake!" she calls out. "Jake!"

Edward hears several footfalls, scurrying to where they are.

"What happened?"

"He toppled over."

"Might be airsickness."

"I don't know. Do you have some water?"

A bottle is pressed to his lips and he drinks, swallowing the clear liquid in huge gulps.

"Easy, easy." Her voice calms him. Her scent brings focus to his mind. He can feel her skin against his where he's gripping her arm. He realizes she's steadying him with both arms.

"Thanks," he offers weakly. "Thank you."

"Lie down," Jake pulls him from Bella's hold and pushes him on to his back. "It'll pass after a while."

He waits for another flash – a return to what he'd just seen – as his head hits the ground but everything is eerily silent. Except for Jake and Bella's soft voices, he hears and sees nothing inside his mind.

It's not the pictures, Edward realizes, it's the places that bring the flashes. The Cullen mansion, the road in front of the cemetery, Eric Yorkie's house. The meadow.

Places he'd been to but forgotten as he got older. It may be people, too. Carlisle Cullen, Eric Yorkie. _Jacob Black? _They're almost of the same age and his father was involved in Alice's first disappearance. At some point, they may have met.

He wonders which parts of the flashes are real, which ones are not. The first one had been too brief and entirely too happy. A child's memory. The next must have been frightening to a small child as an adult had behaved too violently for his young mind to understand.

Did it really happen or does it stand for something else? All three flashes featured only him, Alice and the men he couldn't clearly see. He'd known that the first and second were Jasper only because of Alice. The other man is completely unknown to him.

_Is he real or does he represent someone? Or something?_

He used to snort when Rosalie would tell him they're his memories, repressed due to a childhood trauma. Pop psychology crap, he'd tell her then. At the moment, he's not so sure.

He lies on the ground, mulling it over. He gets up only after a substantial time has elapsed so as not to alarm Bella, who hurries back to him as soon as he stirs from the ground.

She smiles at him a little when he apologizes for being such a wuss but refuses to give him sweet, sickly pity.

_She knows._ He smiles back ruefully, wondering why he ever thought that he could fool her.

Together, they explore the meadow, identifying areas and angles that they'd already seen on paper. He pays close attention to details, asking Bella to photograph certain locations at certain angles, trying to reconstruct the scenes and motions he'd experienced earlier. She complies without batting an eyelid even at his most ridiculous instructions.

"Looks like the skies won't hold," the pilot says, two, three hours later. Looking up, Edward sees clouds gathering and the skies turning dark.

At the first strike of lightning, Jake tells him and Bella to round up their exploration and pack all their equipment. It's already drizzling when the helicopter starts its ascent.

The return trip is silent, broken only by Jake's studied cheer and Bella's monosyllabic answers. She's distracted, not terrified by the noise as she'd been earlier and for that, Edward's guilt eases a little.

The helicopter lands in front of Fork's High half an hour later, amidst curious stares of students now out for a midday break. Edward had forgotten that it's the middle of the semester since there were no students around when they arrived earlier. Even with everyone inside, they probably created a ruckus that morning. He wonders how Carlisle explained this one to the school board.

"Edward," Jake shouts to him over the din, "take Bella to the parking lot. I'll get the equipment."

Edward nods and unbuckles himself. He pulls the helicopter's headset off Bella's head exactly as Jake had done earlier. Snaps the mufflers over her ears, unbuckles her seat and lifts her from the helicopter and onto the ground.

Her hands automatically clutch at his shirt, holding on firmly as the strong wind threatens to blow her small frame away. Her hair whips around her face and he can see her stubborn determination not to cower. They start the frantic dash to the parking lot, with his arms around her.

A few steps away, the chopper starts its ascent and Edward looks back to wave to the pilot.

He turns towards the school again when the helicopter is already in the air. He gives Bella a reassuring smile just as the wind whips his hair from his face.

A student nearest to them zooms the camera of his phone and snaps a picture.

That night, Edward dreams of screaming, of opening his mouth and letting out the loudest, angriest scream he can muster. He's seven again, trapped in the meadow with a man whose face he can't clearly see, whose hand is wrapped tightly around a girl's throat. Alice, his best buddy, the sister he'd never had.

_The man turns to him, alarmed by his pathetic screech. He stalks towards him and even in the blur, Edward can see his pleasant, almost apologetic smile._

"_Run," Alice pleads from her perch within the man's strong arm. _

_He can't move, can't even see through the haze of his tears. He's sobbing in the manner that little boys cry. Quietly, urgently. The man brings his hand up, the one not holding Alice in the air, and brings it swiftly towards his body. It makes a loud crunch sound as it meets his plexus and suddenly, he is flying. Air leaves his lungs as he's propelled backwards, body folded like an inverted C, his arms flung forwards,_

_He lands on his back, skidding a few inches where his body meets the ground. The pain is excruciating and he can't lift his head. He stares upwards, towards the tips of the trees and prays. _

_Across the clearing, above a large rock, he sees two eyes glowing. Another set joins the first two and together, they advance silently, menacingly toward the man holding Alice. He tries to warn Alice, the sister he'd never had, shout for her to watch out but he can't move, his voice has left him. _

_From the sky, he can hear thunder, like giant wings flapping. He closes his eyes to block out his pain and hears a voice in the wind._

_Q'wati..._

_Q'wati..._

**-oOo-**_  
_

**Notes:**

**_Q'wati _is the name of the god who transformed a wolf into the first Quileute man. This is where the entire "wolves as the Quileute's descendants" Twimyth come from. It's a shared legend among several Native American tribes. In the legend, Q'wati is not a shapeshifter but a god.**

**ALSO: I've submitted this story as an "Under the radar" fic at ****www. TheTwilightAwards. com and it has been "validated." Not so sure what that means but it will come out at the site with a little more information since they have some what-the-hell-were-you-thinking-writing-the-fic sort of questions. They asked for some really cool reviews so go ahead and write me another one. =)**


	12. Chapter 12

**Beta'ed by Maylin. Many, many thanks to her. **

**Read and reviewed by you. Many thanks, too. A little request at the bottom. **

d(^_^)b

**-000-  
**

_** That night, he dreams of screaming, of opening his mouth and letting out the loudest, angriest scream he can muster. He's seven again, trapped in the meadow with a man whose face he can't clearly see, whose hand is wrapped tightly around a girl's throat. Alice, his best buddy, the sister he'd never had.**_

The next morning, Edward wakes up restless and inconvenienced. His night had been shot, his nerves in tatters. Instead of going back to sleep to be plagued by incessant dreams, he goes down to the kitchen, posts a note on the coffee maker telling Bella he's going out to go food shopping. They're out of coffee, anyway.

He opts to walk instead of taking the conspicuous Volvo, mingling with the early risers. A man walking with an unhurried gait, a woman with her dog, a milkman, a boy on a bicycle. Someone offers him a polite nod but most don't seem to mind him or care.

He drops by the local cafe, picks up some pastries and several packs of coffee. Across from the cafe is one of the town's gift shops, open for business despite it being so early. His feet lead him towards it and he pushes the glass doors absentmindedly. As he steps in, he's immediately engulfed with a sense of tranquility normally associated with old-fashioned bookstores. The place is quaint, stocked wall-to-wall with gifts and items expected of a gift shop in the middle of one of the most picturesque towns of America.

He walks around the small space, letting his hands and mind absorb the peace. To his surprise, the store not only has a paper and writing section, it's well stocked with a respectable variety of selections. He picks a couple of Moleskine notebooks, some Barnes and Noble drawing books, a dozen pens and additional post-it notes. Beyond the aisles of papers, postcards and wooden knickknacks, he spots a Cambor chessboard, inlaid with dark walnut with a shiny maple finish. He picks it up on impulse, stacking it in with the notebooks and pens before moving towards the store's counter.

The shop's cashier, a petite woman with greying hair, engages him in idle, friendly chatter while ringing up his purchases.

Stepping out in the sun, he feels buoyed, his nightmares slowly receding from his mind. He takes his time walking back, observing the town's available occupants with a slightly discerning eye. Forks is a quiet town – calm and deceptively unobtrusive.

Near his house he waves to a neighbor who calls out her surprise at seeing him up and about so early. One of Esme's spies, he guesses, and imagines her whispering in horror and fascination into Esme's ear as she relays the arrival of a strange girl on a bike and her subsequent stay in a house with a man who is obviously unrelated to her. He imagines Esme would gasp faintly, more in derision than in shock, but the irony will be lost on the tattler. The strange girl, Esme would impart with breathless wisdom, is none other than the daughter of Forks' once assiduous but now deceased chief of police. She's come home to assist the detective, also a Forks' descendant, whose task is to solve Alice's disappearance. _They go well together, don't they?_ And so the story will take root and at the day's end, will be all over the neighborhood.

He pushes the door to his house, steps inside and finds said girl throwing things into her backpack with urgency. Her hair's a mess, her feet are bare, displaying her small black-painted toes. The tank top, under her checked shirt, a size too large for her frame, is shoved carelessly inside her jeans. Behind her, a computer, the one connected to the huge screen, is already droning, emitting a low whiz while parading faces in quick succession.

"Do you mind if I leave you on your own today?"

It's a strange question to ask a perfectly healthy man inside his own house but he decides to humor her.

"No, why?"

"I have to help Jake with something. I'll be back as soon as I can."

He doesn't say anything as he observes her distraction. There had always been a languid grace to her that extends to all her movements but he'd never seen her in such a hurry before. She presses her lips, touches her nose, runs her fingers distractedly through her hair.

_It's her father_, he observes her stress. _He must have taken a turn for the worse overnight. _

"The program should run without interference for the day," she continues, indicating the large screen with the faces. "I've rigged your computer so it'll receive all potential anomalies on command."

"Rigged?" The girl is slipping.

"There's nothing there yet," she goes on. "Everyone we've checked corresponds to their identities, both the living and the dead but I've already identified certain interesting groups. We can run them through as soon as I get back."

"Before you go, I want to ask you something."

"Sure." She doesn't look up, doesn't even pause as she starts to hunt for her shoes.

"You were in my room last night."

She stills on the verge of bending, a shoe in one hand, a bare foot in another. She drops the foot, straightens up slowly and nails him with her patented unblinking stare.

"You were screaming."

"I figured I was," he says, keeping his tone neutral. "People having nightmares have been known to scream in their sleep every once in a while. You didn't wake me. Why?"

"Trauma memory is stored as state-dependent memory," she intones flatly, as if reading from a book. "You'll remember it better if you're in the same state as when you first learned or experienced something."

"Which, generally, would mean going through the same traumas again," he replies. "Sounds pretty harsh."

"The memories are attached to a trigger," she continues as the silence lengthens into seeming disapproval. "Without the trigger, the memory may never come up. If the trigger is interrupted, the memory may become lost and possibly, irretrievable."

He's not trying to find fault in what she did, he merely wants to know what she's thinking. Leaving him to his horrors while she watches over him may be strange, even creepy, and may even sting a little if he's honest enough about it but he knows she's not being cruel. At least, not deliberately.

He tries to smile but his lips turn into a wry grimace as he realizes he sounds too much like a wuss, incapable of withstanding a few nightmares.

"I was just curious," he says. "It's fine that you didn't."

"I'm sorry that I wasn't of much help."

"It's fine, really."

"Do you want a hug?"

"What?" The offer is so unexpected and bizarre that he wonders if he heard her right.

"Do you want a -"

"Yes."

She hesitates before moving closer so he waits. She touches him first, unsure, her fingers lightly brushing the hair on his arm. She doesn't meet his gaze, concentrating instead on a point somewhere behind him. When she withdraws her fingers, he quickly moves in: locking his arms around her, pressing his body hard against hers. The shirt she's wearing rasps against his bare arms and the shirt that covers his chest. He feels resistance ripple through her, but he refuses to let go, brushing his lips against her hair. He spreads one hand over the small of her back, lets the other drift to her waist, under her top. His heartbeat is quickening, her skin is smooth, so smooth.

He knows that he's taking things beyond what she's offering but at that moment, he's willing to push the tenuous link. He suppresses a sigh of relief when he feels her arms go around his neck and her fingers find their way into his hair. He burrows further into the nook of her neck, breathes her in and a scent, calm and now-familiar, fills him.

_Lavender. _Like in the living room where she works, staining the sofa and pillows. Like in his room when he'd passed from nightmare to nightmare the previous night. He lets the scent snake around him and into his body. It must be her shampoo or soap, he decides. Somehow, he can't imagine her using perfume.

Earlier, when he'd woken up, his body had decided to prolong the process of awakening, drawing out the shapes and sights of the new day in slow and lazy steps. He'd noticed little things then – the positioning of the chair beside his bed, a ring stain on the wooden table that can only be made by a cold glass condensing moisture from the air, the drops sliding from its sides and into the surface. They were minor details that he would have missed if not for the lingering, almost hypnotic scent that she left behind.

She squirms, her resistance asserting itself. Her fingers untangle from his hair, her arms loosen and she shifts, pushing at him. His hands slide from her skin as she steps away.

"You'll be fine," she declares with absolute confidence, gingerly patting him on the back.

When she leaves, he feels restless and empty. The house seems quieter, although she'd never been one to make a noise. Her machines hum, beeping as face after face passes through her calculations and are projected into the large monitor.

He stares at it, at the faces that blink at him every fraction of a second. The pattern repeats over and over until the little details, things he wouldn't have noticed start to creep into his eyes. A strange twist on a man's lips, a sneer or a smile. A woman smiling, her eyes lighting up as if in greeting. Someone staring straight at the camera, another looking threatened.

On and on it goes and at some point one of the faces whispers.

_Tell us a story._

He reaches for a notebook and a pen and starts to write.

Bits and fragments of his nightmare take shape in disjointed words and phrases, sentences string themselves together into rambling, sometimes incoherent paragraphs.

The faces from the monitor wash over him, over and over, and he writes furiously to keep up with the digital pace. At one point he drops his pen and he's on his knees, searching for the missing pen under the table.

A sudden, chilly wind bangs at the backdoor and he hears a voice. He straightens up, aware of another presence. There's someone outside the door, he's sure of it. He stands, towering over the sofa, and silently makes his way to the kitchen. He can't see who it is but he can feel his icy presence. For the second time, his body feels odd, like in a dream. He steps out of the house and looks down to see a familiar boy, no more than seven, standing a few steps away.

The boy, his seven-year old self, is talking to a man.

_ You shouldn't have come. _He hears himself tell the man through his seven-year old voice.

Edward can feel the hair on his arms stand up. It doesn't make sense. He looks at the boy, whose face is turned away from him, and senses his struggle for words.

_Go nearer, let me get a look at his face, _he urges the little boy.

His seven-year old self stands rooted to the spot.

_Ask him about Alice. Ask him where she is. Go on, ask him!_

But the boy merely sucks in his breath and nods at something the man said. With rising frustration, Edward is about to step forward when a bell rings behind him. Both the man and boy whip their heads to where he is. Surprise is written on the boy's face, as if he can see Edward as Edward sees him.

_Go_, the little boy turns again and mouths to the man with the blurred face. _Go now. _

Without warning, both disappear, like mists fading in the afternoon sun.

Edward shakes himself, confused and frustrated. The memories don't seem to be memories anymore but a labyrinth designed to taunt him.

A strange chill seeps into him and reluctantly, he steps back into the house. He can still hear the bells ringing. It takes him a few more seconds to realize that the sound is coming from his cellphone, a ringtone that one of his colleagues at The Review had jokingly sent him. He'd forgotten all about it.

"Hello." His voice is raspy when he answers, like he'd just been screaming.

"Edward, Jesus, I've been trying to reach you since yesterday." It's Rose, in a mild panic.

"What? Why?"

"We have to talk, I've delayed this enough already. I'm in the airport now. I'm due in Seattle in six hours. "

"What's going on?"

"I'll tell you when I get there."

"Why can't you tell me now?"

"Because you're not going to like it. Look, I have to go. Meet me at the Sheraton, we'll talk before dinner."

Rose cuts the connection before he can say yes and he drops the phone on the sofa. Across from him, the faces on the screen continue in their linear parade.

He picks up the notebook he'd abandoned earlier and rifles through it, trying to make sense of his own handwriting. Scribbles and senseless ramblings. On one page, he'd drawn a representation of a great bird, outlined in black ink with tinges of red, unintelligible words, over and over in the margins. Some of the images are so real that he can picture them clearly, including the short memory of Alice drinking coffee with his mother in the kitchen.

He looks around to check for anything unusual. Nothing had been moved, everything is in its place. He looks at the kitchen table, seeing Alice and his mother. He blinks and they disappear, leaving only the coffee he'd bought earlier.

He'd forgotten to tell Bella about it.

…...

Rosalie Hale is on her second drink in one of the Sheraton's lounges when Edward walks in. Despite his face being covered with what appears to be a week-old beard, he cuts a striking figure and not a few women in the room spare him a second glance.

"You look great, Rose."

There's a hint of weariness in the greeting and Rosalie looks him over with a critical eye.

"I wish I could say the same. You ran out of razors again?"

Edward scratches his chin. "I like it."

There was a time that she'd liked it, too.

"So what brings you to this side of Timbuktu?"

"Carlisle Cullen invited me."

He'd suspected as much so he just nods and orders a drink.

"What did he want?"

"He's offered me a deal. He's willing to buy a third of the shares of The Review and provide us with enough capital for the next three years without –"

Edward interrupts. "When did he make the offer?"

Rosalie stops, at the gruffness. Instinctively, she knows that he knows what she's come for. "Two weeks after you left."

About the same time he discovered Bella, Edward realizes. That soon. The pieces keep falling into their places and he mulls over what other possible moves Carlisle has already made behind his and Bella's back. The silence stretches and Rosalie takes it as a bad sign.

"I know we've agreed not to accept corporate sponsorship to maintain The Review's integrity," she starts carefully, "but we're in more trouble than before. We've been in the red for more than a year now and Volturi is showing no sign of cutting us some slack. Cullen is offering a silent partnership, with the original board retaining complete editorial control and I'd be a fool not to take it."

He gives a small laugh. "You'd be a fool?"

"Yes, I, me. You took yourself out, remember? You resigned not only from the paper but from the board."

"Ah, so you're left with no choice but to sleep with the enemy."

He'd only meant to tease but Rosalie erupts.

"Don't be crass, Edward. You dove in first when you agreed to hunt his ghosts for him, remember? It's humiliating and galling. It's more of a bailout than an investment but there it is. Besides, Cullen is the one who's taking a huge risk here. I don't even know why he's bothering himself with rescuing a little business paper."

"I know why," he says quietly. "It's a bribe, a preemption. He promised me Volturi but he's got nothing on him. Not officially, at least, so he goes beyond that, prop us up while we wade through the mud. For him, it's temporary."

"He can't be that bad."

"No," Edward laughs a little. "He's actually worse."

He tells her about the investigation Esme Cullen ordered but called off two weeks before, about meeting Bella and her propositions and his tacit approval to her bordering on criminal activities, about his possible involvement in the 25-year old case, about Carlisle's manipulations both of his and Bella's status. He talks about Alice and how deep he suspects his relationship to her was, about dreaming and remembering and the absolute conviction that he's going to make sense out of everything when the time comes.

Edward talks, softly and convincingly, masking his inner battles, and Rosalie is struck by how much he's trapped himself into the case. He might resent Carlisle and his patronage but he's in too deep now to back out. She's known him long enough to recognize the signs. She's seen it before. The single-mindedness, the stubbornness, the willingness to sacrifice everything, including himself. Faced with a seemingly insoluble puzzle or an impossible task, Edward can be extremely tenacious. Everything else fades into the background.

Her phone rings before she can say anything and she picks it up to look at who's calling. She sighs when she sees the number, puts it on the table, but doesn't turn it off. She stares at it, letting it ring.

"Go on..answer it. It's Cullen, isn' it?"

She nods, half in apology, picks up the phone and presses it to her ear. Edward tunes her out as she starts talking.

It is Carlisle, Edward knows without doubt. He's calling to ask Rosalie about her arrival and how she is. He makes small talk before inquiring if she can make it earlier to their dinner meeting. Edward can imagine Carlisle clearly, phone in hand, standing regally near a hotel room window. He'll be face to face with Esme who in turn will be fixing his tie. Esme would smile at him, and he'd smile back at her and that smile will be heard in his voice, smooth and reassuring, as he relays his greetings and confirms his invitation to Rose. Edward knows the technique well. He excels in it himself.

He sees Rosalie smile to the phone, responding to the friendly tone on the other end. She says her goodbyes with a breathless laugh. She's charmed by the man, despite herself.

He raises his brow when she turns to him, a half-pleading, half-embarrassed expression on her face.

"I have to go," she fidgets and he gives her a reassuring smile. "You probably know what I want to say anyway. You always do. The Review is yours as much as it's mine, maybe even more, and it seems so wrong that you're not a part of this even if you did resign and left me in a lurch. I just want you to know that our strict agreement against corporate sponsorship might not be in our best interest now but if you're vehemently against it, then I will reconsider."

"I wasn't looking for a fight," he replies. "If you weren't so high strung, you'd had known that was a joke earlier. Relax, Rosalie. I agree with you. Let him pour money into The Review for a while. We'll buy him out with the money he's going to give me. You're doing the right thing and you know I'll always back you up. Always."

"I know," she breaths her relief, reaching out to squeeze his hand. "I just wanted to hear you say it. Thank you."

He squeezes back.

"C'mon," he says, standing and pulling her up to her feet at the same time. "I'll walk you to your cab. We can't keep your future partner and his wife waiting now, can we?"

…...

Across the street, below the awning of the Swedish Medical Center in central Seattle, Bella stands puffing on a cigarette. Hospital policies had forbidden her to smoke within the grounds so she'd walk a few meters towards the Sheraton to find a decent post to lean on. The Medical Center happens to have a doctor specializing in uncontrollable body temperatures, a complex medical condition that afflicts her Billy. She'd managed to wrangle a last minute appointment that very day, courtesy of one of Newton's previous clients.

She's loitering on the corner where taxis pick up passengers when she notices a tall man and a woman, walking in her direction. The woman is beautiful in a conventional way – blond, curvy, confident. The man she could recognize anywhere. Deep in conversation, they don't even notice her as they pass across her corner. They stop under a taxi sign, close but not touching. A cab rolls to a halt in front of them. They embrace quickly but with familiarity, quick pecks on each cheek, affectionate smiles. Nothing overtly intimate, they're in public after all, but Bella knows better. The woman gets in and the taxi drives off. For long moments, the man stands where he is, staring at the taxi until it disappears. He shakes himself, oblivious of the girl who's watching him across the street. He walks away just as a slight drizzle starts to fall from the grey skies.

"There you are!" She hears Jake call out behind her. "Come back inside, they're wheeling Dad out of the lab."

Bella pushes herself from the post and flicks her half-smoked cigarette away. Sparks fly when she misses her mark and the lighted end hits the corner of the trash bin. She takes one last look at Edward's departing back, turns and follows her foster brother into the hospital.

...

**Hello**.

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	13. Chapter 13

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**xxxxxoooooxxxxxxoooo  
**

**Chapter 13**

"I found something."

Bella drops to a chair next to Edward in the kitchen, interrupting his review of the files on unidentified flying objects presumably seen over Forks between January to July, 1985.

It's been days since Seattle and weeks since they'd started on the wild goose chase for a phantom suspect based solely on a suspicious old photograph. Reviewing past investigations had been tedious and mindnumbing and the days have turned up nothing. The mystery remains a mystery and they're both running out of material.

Edward blinks and leans back on his chair. He'd been meaning to talk to her for days. Their interaction had degenerated into courtesies and occasional exchanges about the weather, the sofa or the wires that she sometimes leaves on the floor. Not that they'd been overfriendly before but he'd felt a distinct chill since coming back from Seattle. He tells himself that she's merely preoccupied with something, that whatever she's working on needs her undivided attention and her solitary nature dictates that she tunes him out. Still, he wonders.

"Let's hear it."

"Alice was attacked months before the Independence parade."

And there it is, he muses, a totally unexpected piece of information. Somehow, he'd known that she'd find a way out of their impasse. He settles himself in his seat and prepares to be confounded.

"The first recorded crack in Alice's behaviour is when she left for Phoenix," she starts, "supposedly after a fight she had with Jasper. According to the story, she threw a tantrum which ended with her in a hospital. There were no police records, the families took care of the damages themselves but I did get the damage report of the hotel and a record of her injuries. I sent her xrays to a doctor in Seattle and he found some inconsistencies."

"The results on her injuries were very definite." Edward remembers the medical report.

"Her injuries were only consistent, not conclusive, with a fall. Running the x-rays through dark-field technology revealed fractures that were invisible with conventional machines. The break on Alice's leg might look like it was caused by a fall but it was actually crushed from above, possibly by a heavy object or a very strong, sharp kick.

Her cuts and bruises were not all consistent with broken glass, either. The scans of her wounds were missing but her hospital records showed payments for blood transfusions. Unless a piece of glass sliced her open, she wouldn't have lost that large an amount of blood.

Alice was attacked violently – thrown around, choked and kicked, her bones crushed. But since both she and Jasper swore that it was an accident, the police were not called. There were no other witnesses and the hotel kept the story out of the papers. No one gathered evidence from the scene or from the victim.

There was also no record of another injured individual in other hospitals around that area between 9PM and midnight that day either. Or any unusual reports except for a fire. A dance studio near the hospital had burned to the ground. Alice's attacker either dumped her and Jasper found her very soon after, or she might have bled to death, or Jasper did catch up with her attacker but he escaped unscathed or..."

"..Jasper killed him." Edward interrupts, an unsettled feeling pooling in his stomach. _Probably burned him after_.

Bella nods. "Which would explain the cover-up. Dr. Peter Whitlock was listed as Alice's attending physician and not only did he write the medical report attributing all her injuries to a three-story fall, he also paid for her bill."

The unsettled feeling grows and Edwards stands to shake it away. He walks to the nearest window and lifts it open. The wind rushes in, chilling him but he doesn't let it bother him. Behind the house, the woods are still and calm and for some reason, he suddenly remembers ducking into the trees. Every thing is so silent that he can almost hear the thin sheen of snow under the trees crunch, as if someone is treading on it with sure, steady steps.

"_I've been looking for you_."

The man in his dreams had been sent to look for Alice and now Edward knows why. What he keeps seeing in his dream is a piece of a puzzle, a part of a series of interlocking events which culminated not in Alice's disappearance but in his departure from Forks. That piece sat inside his mind, locked so deep that it took another series of incidents to unlock it.

Edward stares at the trees in silence for long minutes, certain of another thing. The man in his dreams is dead, killed by creatures hidden deep in the shadows and he'd been part of the cover-up ever since.

He's still for so long that, after a while, Bella gets up to check if he has fallen asleep while standing. She leans against the wall next to him, arms folded, and peers up at his face. He's let his beard grow again, she realizes. It makes him look more like the man she'd watched at a distance for months. Looking closely, she can see lines on his face and shadows under his eyes. He looks sad or doleful or lost, she couldn't decide. She usually can't tell with people, not until they show or tell her explicitly.

Aside from his nightly terrors and the few occasions that they'd sat together to eat a meal, she hadn't been paying him much attention. Not since she'd decided that she wanted nothing to do with him when he returned from Seattle. On the following days, she'd been so preoccupied with her own puzzles that she'd simply lost track of time and forgotten that he's dealing with his trauma on the most visceral level.

"I'm sorry, this must be very hard on you," she says, hesitant, as if she'd searched her mind for the appropriate gesture but couldn't find any.

He turns to her, surprised that she's apologizing. "There's no need to apologize."

"I haven't been much company lately."

He laughs, she hadn't been any kind of company at all.

"I'm not very good at small talk," she continues. "And I don't want to ask you anything about your dreams."

"You don't want to risk accidentally scrambling my memories," he replies, looking at her. "I know."

"Memories are unstable," she explains. "There's the danger of accidentally suggesting information that might change the memory itself. When that memory is re-stored, the new data might accidentally be stored with it."

"A misremembering of things past," he nods. "Sarah Fernandez, 1983."

"It is tricky but I could have been more...," she falters, searching for a word.

"Attentive?"

"Comforting," she supplies and he laughs again, but without rancour.

"Right now, I don't need comfort," he says. "What I need are answers."

Edward leans back and closes the window, waiting for her to move away. He half expects her to refuse to listen so when she stays, he takes it that she's willing.

"Every night, I dream of a man murdering a girl," he begins. "I see him wrap his hand around her throat. I watch him hold her high in the air as if she was nothing and I feel fear so strong that I piss in my pants. I feel him hit me, hard enough to send me flying into the air and when I drop on the ground, I see stars. Every night, when I dream, I'm sure that I'm going to die. It doesn't matter how many times I've dreamed it, that I know for a fact that it doesn't end that way. I feel death creep into my bones and there's nothing I can do but wish for it to be over quickly. But I don't die. I never do. Instead, there's a bird, or what I think is a bird, with wings that span several trees from tip to tip. It swoops down to the man but I blink and it disappears or it turns into thunder loud enough to make the trees shake, I really can't tell. I hear voices in the wind, words rustling like grass. I see shapes in the shadows, eyes that glow in the dark and I try to scream but before I can, it's all over. One moment I'm lying in grass, wishing for a quick death and the next I'm back in my bed and the only shadow I see is my own. I wake up and I don't believe it happened. It's all just a vivid dream."

"But you don't believe that, either," Bella murmurs and he looks at her because no, he doesn't believe it either. Trauma memories are flash-frozen. When retrieved they're exactly as they happened. Or in his case, induced and brought to the surface by incidents too carefully construed and timely to be considered coincidences.

"No, I don't," he agrees. From the moment he'd stepped into Forks, he's stumbled on one familiar place after another, run into old faces, as if guided by an unseen compass.

"There is another possible explanation."

"Yes, the one that says I'm insane."

"It's a legitimate possibility."

He shakes his head and laughs at her, incredulous that she'd actually try to convince him. He's not superstitious. He's smart enough to understand most of the world's complex phenomena through science and reason. But he'd never been pushed so hard to doubt his own senses and logic before and he finds it absurd that when he does, when he finally gives in, she pulls him in anotherdirection.

"Bella, from day one, you have been pushing me to consider these possibilities," he points out. "You watch me through my nightmares. Night after night, you come into my room, sit on the chair by the window and listen as I scream and thrash around. I know that you want to wake me up, you're uncomfortable with fear and terror, but you don't because that is not a very logical thing to do. You don't ask in the morning, not because you're not interested but because you are. If I'm insane, then you're as crazy as I am."

"Probably more," she shrugs.

"I get it, I really do," he says, stung by her blasé attitude. "This is all an exercise to you, an exploration in logic. You want everything broken down into little pieces so you can scrutinize every detail. Your strict rationalism demands that I be absolutely certain of what I know so you can go along with it."

"And so do you," she argues back. "You'll consider other possibilities only when no other probable explanation exists. You don't trust anything, not even your own senses."

"Because they can lie," he explodes and sees her cringe into the wall.

"I feel," Edward tells her, trying to keep his voice even, "that I'm in a world with its own sense of logic, with rules that I shouldn't break even if I don't know what they mean. I go along with it because I have no choice."

"I can't tell you what they mean. I don't have direct experience like you do..."

"You mean," he interrupts her, "you don't have my dreams."

He walks back to the table and picks up a Moleskine notebook, the one where he'd kept a journal.

"Here, take it," He pushes the journal at her. "I've written down everything I can remember. There's a lot of debris in there, things that I don't understand but I know you do. It's all yours."

She stares at his hand. "I'm not sure I should. Not yet."

"It's what you want, isn't it? My memories for your skills, your cooperation and whatever it is you decide to drive me crazy with. The pictures, your scent, the marks you have on your skin. Creatures and symbols that match perfectly with the ones in my dreams. I know that there's a thunderbird inked on your back, with wings that span your shoulders. I know the marks on your hips spell the name of a god and here...," he grabs her right arm and twists it to expose skin inside her elbow, "this one is a symbol of a wolf. Do you know that when you move, you flaunt them? They jump out of your skin and tempt me to tear your clothes off so I can see it all. Oh, I know it's not intentional. You'd rather stay as far away from where I am as possible. You know I'd want to do more than see what's under there. I'd want to touch it, feel it... "

He'd moved close as he ranted, so close that they now stood toe to toe. He's almost a foot taller than she is, so he hovers above her as she looks up at him, immobile. He realizes how he must look – nose flaring, eyebrows drawn together, eyes glaring – angry, hungry, frustrated. Frightening. But she's not. Hasn't been. She's standing stock still, eyes wide, lips slightly parted, brows lifting. Surprised, but not at him. Her pupils had dilated.

He loosens his hold on her arm and presses the journal to her, forcing her to accept it. He backs away, slowly, letting her regain her balance and private space.

"Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going for a walk before I make a complete ass of myself. I will be back and when I do, I'll be sorry. I'll apologize for shouting at you and saying and doing things I shouldn't have but not right now. We will talk about this," he warns, "and of other things. We'll have to work something out because I'm not going back to you working in your little corner and me in mine."

He turns to the living room and takes his jacket from the peg near the door.

"There's food in the fridge if you're hungry," he reminds her, pulling his jacket on with jerky movements. "Try not to burn the house down while I'm away."

He goes out, letting the door bang behind him.

xxxxoooooxxxxxx

An hour later, the trees start to look familiar and Edward wonders if he's been walking around in circles. A strange urge to smoke nearly overwhelms him but he resists. He doesn't go for walks to clear his mind or distract himself. He walks to organize his thoughts.

He's knows he's not insane. There are a lot of phenomena still unexplained by science. And when there's a void, people believe. That's why legends still exist. Besides, he maintains a healthy skepticism towards any dogma or organized thinking, including science when it rules out something unexplainable just because there's no conventional scientific explanation. But he finds it irresponsible not to exhaust rational explanations first, before jumping blindly into the unknown. He wants to trust Bella, trust the workings of her mind, but he can't see where everything's leading.

He's right about her. About how different she is. Extremely intelligent with a highly developed capacity for reason, an unshakable but twisted sense of morality and a general lack of empathy for people around her. She's capable of solving the most complex problems but she probably can't get herself out of the rain. Her special interest is in people, they're the best puzzles there are to her and picking and deconstructing their secrets gives her direction. She sticks to routine to the point of inflexibility, is alternately taciturn and indifferent. Hard to read, socially clumsy and slightly asexual to boot.

I need to learn how to read her better, Edward sighs. He goes on walking, putting one foot in front of the other, without aim or direction, to give her time.

It's already dark when he comes back and the house is silent, seemingly unoccupied. He doesn't look for her, he knows she's around somewhere. They'd deal with themselves in the morning. He goes upstairs, drained and weary, changes into his sleeping clothes and collapses into the bed.

Hours later, he starts to dream.

The walls of his room start to melt into trees and his bed disappears so he rises. The floor under his feet is cold and he realizes that he's barefoot...and tall...and wearing the shirt he'd been wearing when he went for a walk earlier. Around him, the shapes shift, lose focus and then conform. The ceiling becomes the sky, the trees convulse and grow branches. It starts to rain, melting the décor and rugs on the floor.

He's in the meadow again and it's exactly the same as before but sharper, greener, more... occupied. The man is there, holding Alice up. The boy, his seven year old self, is on the ground, helpless and scared out of his wits.

He watches with stoic fascination as the man squeezes Alice's fragile neck, notes the angle of his arm, the sharp turn of his nose, the gleam in his red eyes. He has dark hair, braided into thick ropes. His mouth is turned into a lascivious smirk as he stares at Alice like she's a piece of meat. Mouthwatering. Edward shivers.

His name is Laurent and Edward knows he speaks with an accent. He was sent to retrieve Alice by someone named Victoria. A mate for the mate that Jasper had murdered. Then everything that has already happened, happens again. A wolf steps out, then another. Soon there are more, making a four-cornered circle. Laurent drops Alice and runs. Alice grabs the boy and runs in the other direction. They run and run and run. They're nearly there, near the edge of the woods when they see a man rushing to meet them. Dark skinned, broad shouldered, longhaired. Edward had seen him before. Alice goes to him and talks in rapid fire, breathless and shaking. The man angles his head, listening.

They seem to talk forever and as Edward is about to step out, move closer, the man turns. And leaps. Elongates. Explodes into a massive ball of fur. Lands in front of him.

Edward stares at the creature, slack jawed and paralyzed. The chilly air steams around its nostrils as it regards him with a fierce, tawny-eyed stare.

_I know you._

_And I, you._

The creature bares its teeth in a savage smile and with a flick of its tail, disappears into the suddenly-there fog.

Around him, the trees move, closer and closer, forming an impenetrable wall. The topmost branches arch and sway forward, stretching to meet each other at the tips. He staggers back and stumbles, as the trees close in on him. He braces himself to meet the hard ground but instead, he sinks into a soft mattress and sheets, soft and scented, wrap around him. He tries to move but the sheets morph into a rope, sliding across his torso, holding him down. It glides against his skin like silk, anchoring him and suddenly, he doesn't care and stops struggling.

Hush, it whispers. He closes his eyes and burrows further into its warmth. There's something familiar about it, tickling his nostrils, and he takes a deep breath.

It smells, as he'd expected, of lavender.

xxxxoooooooooxxxxxx

v

v

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	14. Chapter 14

**Thanks to all who reviewed, and to Maylin, my superbeta and contest-host extraordinaire.  
**

**Same apologies, and disclaimers, apply.**

_Chapter 14 or _WHEREIN EDWARD FINDS HIMSELF IN AN IMPROMPTU PICNIC

"Where are we going again?"

Edward is driving the Volvo, heading towards La Push at ten in the morning. Bella sits beside him, driving him crazy with enigmatic answers.

"My father wants to talk to you."

Apparently, she'd decided that someone else was going to answer his questions. The abruptness, coupled with the unexpected clarity and newest addition to his dreams, is making him very nervous.

He'd woken up before dawn, shocked, as he'd found himself tangled with Bella in his bed. It had taken everything in him not to move and wake her. It was still early so he'd forced himself to go back to sleep, intent on taking advantage of the situation as long as he could. When he'd woken up again, she was already dressed and waiting for him in the living room. Without as much as a hello, she'd ordered him to get dressed and announced that they were taking a little trip to La Push.

"Does he know we slept together?"

Bella's lips thin in annoyance and Edward tells himself to behave with more tact. He knows that when he's nervous, he tends to become a little obnoxious. He'd avoided opening his mouth but Bella is not exactly the best conversationalist there is. She haven't given him the chance to apologize for the day before, and much less, ask her on what she was doing on his bed that night.

"Stop here."

They arrive near a cliff, overlooking First Beach. Edward recognizes the shore from photos and scans he'd studied days before. There's a table on one side, tucked under the trees and some chairs. Jacob and five others he assumes are either family or close friends loiter around it, talking and eating. They wave to him and Bella as they get out of the car. Bella waves back but makes her way towards the cliff where two lounge chairs, out-of-place in the scenery, are placed near the edge. A man sits on one of the chairs, his back to them. A wooden box sits between the chairs, with two cups on it. Clearly, he was expected.

Bella goes to the man, speaks to him. The affection is clear as the man touches her face and she tilts her head for a paternal kiss. Bella motions for him to come closer and he does, his nervousness increasing with each step.

This is it, Edward thinks, and wonders if he's ready or if he'll ever be ready. It's not everyday that he gets to bridge his dreams with reality. His steps take him to the chair sooner than he'd expected.

"Sit down, Edward, have a cup." The voice is soft, raspy but there is no mistake in its command. Edward does what he's told.

He takes the cup, sips slowly. The liquid warms his throat and he waits for his eyes to clear and his mind to snap. Unless his memories are lying, he'd seen this man, twenty five years ago, transform into a big, furry wolf. The face is weathered and lined but there is no mistaking the eyes. He can see and hear him, even touch him if he wants.

Billy Black is as real as his memories and he is sitting beside him, drinking coffee. He's as real as the waves that crash at the rocks below them, the salt in the wind that surrounds them and the muted voices he can hear at a distance.

Faced with this certainty, Edward is at a loss. There's so much to say, so many things to ask but he knows that there are rules and protocols to be observed. So he asks the most obvious, and to his mind, the most important question.

"How have you been?"

The old man smiles and Edward feels he just passed some kind of test.

"I've been old," the old man tells him, "but otherwise fine. My children have grown and it is now their time. I am happy and content, but they worry."

"I'm glad," Edward says, meaning it, "that everything turned out well for you. And the others?"

"They've grown old, like me. I will tell them you asked after them," he says. "And you? How have things been so far?"

"I'm...," Edward stops before giving out a nervous laugh. "Frankly, I'm surprised to be here."

"Our kinds have not always been at odds. We've coexisted peacefully before."

"Our kinds..."

"Or families, if you prefer," the old man says, a faraway look in his eyes. "A family lived here once, different from the others. They respected the land and the people. When they had trouble, we helped them."

As his nightmares progressed, Edward had made sure he understood the words and some of their meanings. By now, he knows enough of the legends. Of Q'wati, the transformer, who came across a pack of wolves and turned them into the first _Quileutes_, of a thunderbird called _Wakį́yą_ or Kwakwaka'wakw or Nootka whose enormous wings cause thunder and stir the wind, of the raven and of Dask'iya, an ogress who ate children. Of marauding creatures who wreaked havoc among the Quileutes and other peoples, of other gods and monsters who crossed the seas to conquer. Edward assumes his "family" is one of the latter.

"Do you see that island?" The older man points out towards the sea. " A-Ka-Lat. People call it St. James Island now. It used to separate the Quileutes from their enemies and served as a burial ground for chiefs. It's also the home of Ayahos, a serpent with two heads and blazing eyes and horns. It is said that when the Ayahos is displeased, it moves and the earth moves with it, shaking the mountain and dislodging the land, bringing wrath and destruction to people who've forgotten."

"People believe that?"

"They did. A long time ago."

"But not anymore."

"Not anymore...," Billy echoes. "People believed in a lot of things then, in gods and spirits and luck. People knew of their personal guardians and communed with them, as they prayed to the sun and Tsikati. They teach their sons and daughters the ways of true faith and benevolent worship. But they abandon them soon enough, remember them only as things of the past, relegate them to their imaginations and yearly parades. The true believers pass on, or stop believing and the things that hold them together are lost, abandoned. Sometimes, never to be found again."

Edward watches Billy take a sip from his cup, his hands shaking. He's in pain, Edward realizes. He remembers the medical condition that he'd heard Bella and Jake talk about, knows that it's the cause. But he can't shake the feeling that he's causing it, that underneath the warm welcome and openness lurks an innate rejection that can't be helped.

The old man convulses into a coughing fit, calling the attention of those from the table. In particular, a strikingly handsome woman that he'd seen Jake talked to earlier. She comes running, concern etched on her face.

"Dad, you're burning up."

"Of course I am," he gives his older daughter a smile before turning an indulgent, brown-eyed stare to Edward, "we have a guest, you see..."

**xxxxxxxoooooxxxxxxxx**

"Here, it'll warm you up," Jake hands him a flask before dropping into the lounge chair that his father just vacated. Billy had excused himself to rest in a camper parked nearby.

"Thanks." Edward takes a swig from the flask, welcoming the burn. Whiskey, just what he needed. They sit together quietly, with Jake watching the sea below and Edward watching the others on the side.

"Did Bella give you the results on that x-ray she had reanalyzed in Seattle?" Jake asks, breaking into his thoughts.

"She was in Seattle? When?"

"The weekend before last. We took Dad to the Swedish Medical Center."

"The one across from the Sheraton?"

"Yeah, you were there?"

"I met with an associate at the hotel."

"An associate, eh?" Jacob grins at him and even without looking at him, Edward can read the mocking disbelief. He takes another swig from the flask and is about to comment when he sees Bella rise from where she's sitting and tackle the young boy beside her. Even from afar, he can tell that the boy had been teasing her for a while and she'd endured it for several minutes. They crash together to the ground, not too gently or gracefully, yelping and laughing.

"I bet that hurt," he mutters, watching Bella wrestle the boy in earnest, and hears Jake chuckle.

"When she's happy, she's kid-happy," Jake says and Edward suddenly remembers what Bella once told him.

"She told me she was homeschooled. Did you..."

"Yeah, Bella doesn't mix well with crowds," Jake answers. "It was more Rachel than me, though. Rachel and Dad."

"She mixes with this one well," he observes. There are six of them at the table, joking and playing around.

"She tolerates it. She hates it when we throw her one of these family things, thinks it's too much. But she's had so little for so long, we're just trying to even things out. That's Seth with her. My sister, Rachel, Leah..," Jake begins to point out faces to him and Edward takes note. Leah, Seth, Harry and Sue Clearwater. Then there's Rachel, Billy and Jacob Black. Her entire family. "That's about everyone who took care of her. "

"What happened to her? Before she came here?"

"Ah, no, you're not getting that story from me," Jake shakes his head. "If you're still around a few months from now, someone might tell you."

"You don't expect me to hang around." Edward is surprised at the appraisal.

"You're a man of the world, Edward. It's up to you."

"Is this the part where you're going to warn me? You know, break her heart and I'll break your neck?"

To his surprise, Jacob bursts out laughing. "If she likes you, then good for you."

"I don't think she likes me very much."

"Too bad," he says, "because you obviously do."

**xxxxxxxoooooxxxxxxxx**

"That was highly informative, " Edward says, hours later. They're in the car again, driving back to Forks from the cliff picnic. This time, Bella's behind the wheel since he'd felt too buzzed from the whiskey. He'd finished off the entire flask. "Your father called me a guest."

"Because you were."

"I mean," he turns to her, "you're a part of a family. But I was a guest, not a friend or civilian. Human would have done just fine."

"Because you're with them," she answers. "You might not realize it yet but they've marked you, claimed you for themselves a long time ago."

"So if we follow the legend, your kind is intact, as with the others, because your people believe in them. And my kind became extinct because I forgot."

"Something like that."

"Sounds pretty convenient. If they're gone, why are we looking for them, then?"

"Because they exist."

"Where?"

"Somewhere."

He shakes his head. It's more complex than he'd originally thought and if he spends another minute thinking about it, his head will explode.

"Jake tells me you were in Seattle the weekend before last."

She nods.

"Did you see me?"

Another nod.

"With Rosalie?"

A pause.

"Uh-huh."

"It's not like that, you know."

"Your relationship with Ms. Hale is none of my business."

"So you don't mind it?"

"What?"

"If we continue to sleep together, which I hope we will..."

"We don't sleep together."

"We didn't, by the way. Rosalie and me, not that time."

"Didn't what?"

"Sleep together."

She throws him a glance so dark, he would've withered if he cared.

"You're annoying when you're drunk."

Edward closes his eyes, enjoying the haze of alcohol and lavender.

"So I've been told."

**xxxxxxxoooooxxxxxxxx**

_Rosalie, I'm going incommunicado for a while. Don't try to contact me, I'm turning off my phone and abandoning my emails. Love, Edward_

He presses send and counts down from thirty, his head pounding. He's not to ten yet when his phone rings, the church bells ringtone clanging atrociously in his ears.

"I'm all right," he says before Rosalie can say anything. "I just need to concentrate on some things."

"So, who is she?"

"Who is who?"

"Your new girlfriend."

"Hmmm," Edward pinches the bridge of his nose. According to Rosalie Hale, there's always a girl when he gets into one of his moods. "What are we talking about?"

"Check your email. I've scanned a clip for you. You're in the New York Post, on the prestigious Page Six no less."

Edward fumbles to open his laptop and as Rosalie promised, there, in one of her emails, sits a headline in bold, capital fonts.

DISGRACED JOURNALIST HIDING WITH YOUNG GIRLFRIEND IN WASHINGTON

Under the heading is a photograph, obviously taken with a cellphone, of him and Bella. His arms are around her, his eyes on her face, the wind in her hair and his. The helicopter looms majestic behind them, the Cullen insignia emblazoned prominently on its side. If he hadn't known better, he'd say it was a tender moment. He's protective, shielding her from the wind and noise, and she's looking at him, young and vulnerable.

"The copies are limited and their webpage is inaccessible," he hears Rosalie say. "Their servers were attacked by a very strange and specialized virus just a few hours ago. It wiped all their active and back-up files, even those not hosted in house. Thank God, that hasn't happened to us yet. The damage is extensive, it will take them some time to get it working again. It's a miracle they managed to get today's issue to the printers."

_She crashed an entire network? Jesus fucking Christ. _Edward has no doubts it was Bella. It would be the kind of thing she'd do. She'd have no qualms in targeting an entity that exposed her indiscriminately. It must have been extremely quick and easy, Edward realizes. Bella had deposited him on the sofa when they'd arrived, a little after lunch so he could sleep off his buzz. It's only early evening.

"We haven't announced the Cullen buyout yet but rumor has it, Carlisle Cullen has taken you under his wing. This hiding-in-his-hometown story is sure to add fire to it."

"That should give Aro Volturi some pause."

"I hope so. I don't know if this is one of Cullen's ploys but if it is, it's working. We've plugged some leaks."

"Good," he says. "That's good news."

"Let's hope our luck keeps up. I hate to admit this but it's looking like you were right all along. Volturi's been going a bit easy on us lately, now that he thinks you're out of the picture."

"He's a vulture, don't let your guard down."

"I won't," she sighs. "I miss you."

"I miss you, too."

"Call me when you can."

"I will."

"And Edward?"

"Yes?"

"She's very pretty."

She certainly is, he grimaces. So pretty, in fact, that he can't help but stare at her with unabashed fascination in front of her entire family. Especially when she's behaving like the bright, smart, reasonably happy, young girl that she is for once. That and drinking all her brother's whiskey.

_Very smooth, Edward. _He can almost hear Rosalie say.

"I know."

**xxxxxxxoooooxxxxxxxx**

It's hours later when Edward finds it.

After waking from his alcohol-induced nap, he'd pored over Alice's pictures between her doomed trip to Phoenix and the day she disappeared, looking for something that wasn't there before. He'd been sure there was something, anything, and he wasn't disappointed.

What he'd found was not only strange but also very telling. A necklace, held together by a blue ribbon, clearly costummade. Alice wore it prominently during her birthday, which was smack in the middle of her happy days with Jasper. In a picture, she's smiling broadly, radiant and beautiful as only a sixteen year old girl could, surrounded by friends and family. There's no Jasper in the circle, of course. He'd be out of the picture, probably holding the camera. There'd be a picture of him and Alice, taken later, but it would be long gone before he was.

The Cullens originated from Ireland, sailing thousands of miles in the 19th century to settle in North America. So why was Alice wearing the crest of a family believed to have originated from Devon, England?

He runs the picture through one of Bella's programs, sharpening every detail by a thousand pixels and puts it through the house of names database. It finds its match easily, pinging as the computer loads the family history and its coat of arms and crest. Edward notes the delicate lines of the wreath, the shape of the helm and size of the mantling. He looks at the images of two locks on the shield carefully and the graceful inverted arches of the letter inside it. W...for Whitlock.

_So it's true, _Edward mulls on his findings.

Whatever deranged entity decided on how things should be in this other world, there are parameters - identities, laws and rules to be observed and accepted. The families are distinguished through their marks and according to legend, that's how they find each other. He prints a copy of the crest and puts it next to his computer and for minutes, sits there, staring at it, feeling like he's on the verge of discovering something but not knowing what it is.

It's almost dawn when he trudges up the stairs, ready to drop into bed. For some reason, he finds himself stopping in front of Bella's door. Pushing it open, the door swings easily, like she'd deliberately left it that way and Edward decides the entire day couldn't be stranger than it is already. The girl herself is sprawled on the narrow bed, sleeping soundly.

There are rules in the world that he'd just stepped into, this Edward knows. Remembering, marking, belonging are all important parts of the puzzle. When he finds himself, he'll be able to find the others. And if the legends are to be observed, she'd be on one side while he's on the other.

Soon, maybe even earlier than he thinks.

But at that moment, Edward couldn't think of any reason why he should stay away from her. Pulling off his jacket and shoes, he makes his way into her room. He empties his mind, relaxes his body and crawls into the narrow bed beside her.

Lulled by her warmth and scent, he soon falls asleep, unaware of the decision that he'd just made, and of those who felt it, loud and clear.

**xxxxxxooooooxxxxx**

NEXT (bear with me, please)

Chapter 15 or WHEREIN SOMETHING UNEXPECTED HAPPENS (or maybe not really)


	15. Chapter 15

Thanks to my busybee, internetless, allround coolchick beta Maylin.

Credit to SMeyer and Stieg Larsson, who is all over the place at the moment.

**Chapter 15 **_WHEREIN SOMETHING UNEXPECTED HAPPENS_

A sharp prick, like the tip of a needle, Edward's not sure. Whatever it is, it jolts him and he comes from sleep to complete wakefulness in an instant, unlike the previous mornings when he'd come to himself, slowly, sleepily, an old lamp refusing to light. His eyes take a few moments to adjust. The room is dark, and the only illumination comes from a streetlamp, streaming through the farthest window.

Edward knows this room. Long ago, it was his. The bookshelves near the window used to hold his most prized possessions – story books about cars and trains, toy planes and a blue and white police cruiser. On the farthest wall is a table, where he once doodled magical, terrifying creatures, and tucked beside it is a chair, where his mother once sat, trying not to cry as she explained to him that his father had left them so suddenly, so out of the blue. The chair is still there but another sits on it.

"Bella?"

All is eerily, completely calm and although everything seems to be in its right place, he can feel that something is wrong, as if the room has been tilted and he, along with it.

"Hey," he tries to pull himself up, but his body feels heavy, tied to the bed with ropes he can't see. It's still dark outside so he knows that he's only been asleep two, three hours at the most. Maybe he'd been having a nightmare again."Did I wake you?"

She doesn't answer and Edward falls back to the bed, his limbs heavy and languid. He turns to her again and is momentarily baffled, as she does the oddest thing ever.

She stands, and saunters towards him, catlike in her grace. She pulls her shirt over her head, throws it away and his eyes follow the piece of clothing as it flutters to the floor. Slowly, quietly, to be forgotten immediately. She pulls on the cord of her pyjamas next and the cloth floats down, the silk rustling. She's wearing nothing underneath, nothing that can shield her from his eyes, yet she steps forward, to a tune that he can't hear. She stops at the side of the bed and he can see her marks glow slightly, radioactively, chasing the darkness on her neck, the swirls of her breasts, her taut stomache, the fine curls between her legs.

She tugs the sheet covering him and he almost scrambles back. Almost.

"What are you doing?" His own clothes have somehow disappeared and he's only clad in his boxers. Much to his chagrin, he's already hard, engorged from her brief, unworldly tease.

"Don't you want me?"

"It's not that." He sucks in his surprise as she straddles him in one smooth movement, leaning in close, close enough for him to see the rings on her ears and brows, on her lips.

"Don't you want to fuck me?" she whispers, her curious eyes boring into his.

"No...yes.. I..," he stutters, dazed, when she crawls over him and her nipples, hard and one ringed, rake the thin blanket of hair on his chest. She leans closer still and touches her lips to his and he catches his breath as he tastes the metal on her lips, cool and burning at the same time. He looks at her marks, glowing almost antagonistically, and a choked laugh escapes him. "You're not real."

"Maybe," she smiles back, breathing into him, and despite the room's warmth, he shivers.

"This is a dream," he declares, because it's only in dreams that skin glows, emitting a low kind of radiation, flaring now and then into red and orange flames that don't burn. Just a dream, Edward tells himself, but his hands go to grip her waist when she starts to rock back and forth on him and his body begins to feel the flow of electricity, charging him, flooding him with fire. "My dream."

"Is it good?" she croons.

"Yes," he hisses, because he can feel her entry against the engorged head of his penis through his boxers. Wet and slick and ready. _Jesus, yes._

"Then believe..." she says as she reaches down between her legs to tug on his boxers and sinks down on him, slowly, and she feels good, so good that for a few minutes, Edward forgets his own name as she rocks against him, tight and painful. "Do you believe?"

"I don't know," he breathes out and swears loudly as he feels himself lose control, like a hormonal teenager on his first fuck. He forces himself to slow down. Think, ruin the moment.

"I might," he winces as she presses herself down harder, heightening his pleasure, "if you tell me you're real."

"I can't," she replies as she decides on a rythm and starts to ride him in earnest. The pressure inside burns him and he gasps as flames, orange and red, crackle and burn from her marks as she undulates above him, sliding him in and out.

"I can't tell you," she whispers, "but I can show you."

"Show me what?" he asks.

"A world," she replies, "of dreams and fire, where we can walk in dark places unharmed; where creatures abound, tied by blood and affinity, where one doesn't exist without the other, borne in the shadows of the night... " She breaks off, panting as she rides him harder, faster, deeper.

"Go on," he groans out, meeting her as far as his body can go. "Don't stop. "

"We belong," she goes on, her words becoming more in sync to the roll and thrust of their bodies. "between the darkness and light, where you, and I, can worship with everything within us, everything inside our minds, our souls, our dreams..."

He thrusts deeper and deeper inside her and she takes him in, longer but also faster and everything seems to move fast, then slows down without warning.

"How are you doing this?" he asks. It's not possible, he tries to reason, not possible at all, how their bodies can blend seamlessly, where he doesn't know where he ends and she begins.

"I am worshipping you," she says, panting now, "with my body."

"That feels amazing," he groans again, past all coherence, "so good..." The pressure inside him reaches his chest, squeezing the air out of his lungs and threatens to stop his heart. He looks down at his hips, where they are joined, watchs her sway above him, sinuous and graceful, but she tips his head up, makes him look at the ceiling but not before he sees the flames on her body rise and crackle, consuming her. He looks down on himself and finds that he himself is burning. Orange and red flames lick on his skin, crawling from the center of his chest to the tips of his fingers.

Higher and higher the flames go until he feels himself lurch, and it's as if he's standing on the edge of a high ledge and the wind is beating against him in loud, strong gusts. It hurts, where the wind hits him, but the pain only heightens the pleasure. There's a crackle, a crack of a whip, and he falls, weightless. Pleasure explodes into orgasm like nothing he's ever experienced before and he tries to grasp for reason but everything – every thought, every breath, every movement – is blasted into oblivion.

And then, there's nothing.

At first.

Then he comes into a place, like a white room except there are no walls. Just endless, soft white. The whiteness moves and suddenly, there's Bella in front of him, getting off her bike. Another wave, another movement and he can see that she's parked in front of a house he hasn't seen before, in a neighborhood that he doesn't recognize but is fairly sure is in La Push. The Blacks' house, Edward decides, is like all the other houses in the area. Small, decrepit, comfortable. Bella goes in and he follows, phasing through the door that she'd just slammed in his face. The living room is small, even smaller that his, and he can see Jake in the small kitchen through the holes of the cupboard that acts as a divider between the small living room and the kitchen.

"Hey, kiddo. Didn't expect you 'til tomorrow." Edward hears Jake call out and realizes, for the first time, that Bella's wearing the same clothes and carrying the same bag she'd been carrying on the day she'd first arrived on his doorstep. This is where she went, that first day, after their breakfast at Cravings.

"Change of plans." He hears her answer. "What's with all your things in here?"

Bella is moving around the living room, trying to avoid monitors, CPUs and various electronic gadgets scattered in and around the sofa.

"Leah's getting my room," he answers from the kitchen. "She's moving in for a while."

"Why?"

"Something's happening," Jake says. "There's a cold one in town."

"What? Who?"

"Edward Masen."

She laughs, heartily, and he's glad that she finds it hilarious because it's absolutely the most ridiculous thing he'd heard ever.

"I know for a fact that he isn't. I ran a check on him."

"He's not exactly a cold-cold one," Jake clarifies, emphasizing the 'cold.' "He's like you. He's like their you."

"Adopted?"

"Claimed," answers Jake, his voice muffled with something like a biscuit in his mouth.

So Edward hears all about it. How Leah, whom Bella considers a sister, is moving in because Sam, her fiancée had just dumped her for another woman. A woman the saintly Sam had only seen once, but had imprinted upon, which means, he had to love and marry her at all costs. He'd not only imprinted on Emily, he's also managed to mangle her face because she'd been standing too close to him when he'd transformed.

Edward listens, stunned, as Jake goes on about what happened, what is happening and what's happening still. All because of his presence, all because once upon a time, a cold one befriended him and decided to take it upon himself to include him in his little coldblooded family.

"So what happens to him?' Bella had listened to Jake's spiel in silence as well, but with calm acceptance, not saying anything or muttering her disbelief as he would have done if he hadn't known, hadn't been prepared to hear the story.

"Nothing," Jake answers. "He hasn't done anything. He doesn't even know."

"Not yet, you mean," she says. "You want me to keep an eye on him? He just hired me..."

**XX**

Edward finds her in the living room in the morning, sorting out documents and folders into boxes and piling them up, one after the other, on one side of the wall.

When he'd woken up earlier, sluggish and disoriented, his skin had felt cold, and clammy, but amazingly, he'd also felt fine. He'd lain on her narrow bed for long moments, thinking. There hadn't been a single singed hair on his body. The sheet that had covered him was dry and pristine and so were the uncreased pillows to his side. He'd been fully clothed, wearing exactly what he wore when he'd climbed into Bella's bed the night before.

He watches her from the landing on the second floor, unobserved, as she marks a box, seals it with tape and moves to another.

She's clearing away the debris, Edward realizes, as this part of the investigation clearly was. It had served its purpose. Seeing the gathered evidence had been for his benefit as much as it had been for Carlisle's but now they're done with it, finished with leads that go nowhere and half baked theories. All except one. The faces on her machine march on as she continues her quest for that elusive face that spooked Alice. It doesn't escape his attention that she's added several hundreds of profiles to her database, all deceased prior to the Alice's disappearance. That she's searching for a ghost would be an understatement. No, Edward decides, she's searching for a myth. And even myths have faces.

A clear, linear line is taking shape in Edward's mind, different from the first timeline he'd drawn. Wider, more all-encompassing. More improbable. All of the events are connected, he's sure of it, even if they don't actually make sense.

He takes the first step down and Bella looks up, finally, and finds him.

She stares back at him, giving him nothing. No blink, no flicker of acknowledgement in her eyes. She holds his gaze steadily for long moments until he moves again and comes down the stairs.

"Cullen called," she says when he's near enough. "Says he's dropping by today. I thought I'd sort out the files we've already gone through so his people can pick them up. Do you need a print out of the conclusive findings?"

Edward shakes his head, his mind far from the investigation. "He wouldn't want a report of things he already knows."

"You can give him Phoenix," she continues. "I've prepared a report for you."

She points to a binder on the kitchen table which Edward is sure contains the most concise and intelligent reading on what had transpired in Phoenix. She is by far the most meticulous and thorough partner he's ever had.

"Phoenix will just lead to more questions."

"All answers start with a question," she says, "that's why you need to ask the right ones."

Edward has the distinct feeling that they're not talking about Phoenix anymore.

"Bella, about last night..."

"What about it?"

She's already turned her back on him, intent on finishing the work she's started. She's not even paying attention, Edward observes, and he considers for a moment what he is just about to ask.

"Nothing," he says, deciding everything had all been a dream. Nothing more. He can't just tell her about his vivid, although extremely satisfying, wet dream, especially when she figured in it prominently. They haven't talked about anything yet. Not even about the other day.

"The other day," he starts again, "I shouldn't have shouted at you."

She turns to him for a short moment and shrugs. "It was a test."

"It was," Edward agrees. And he's gotten exactly what he wants. He'd pushed her, cornered her into baring her most basic responses. Confronted with a man who wants her, desperately, almost angrily, she'd responded the way he'd hoped. Beat for pulsing heartbeat, breath for ragged breath. She'd wanted him back.

"It upset you," he says, "because you didn't expect yourself to react the way you did."

"True," she shrugs again, unimpressed. There's no use denying it, she figures. They're both fairly honest individuals, at least to themselves. That she could be attracted to him, sexually, isn't exactly groundbreaking. "No harm, no foul."

"All the same, it won't happen again," he says. There were other fair ways of getting a rise out of her. "I'm not going to ask you anything that you're not prepared to say. I trust you will tell me if there is something I need to know."

"If we need to talk about something, we will," she tells him, like they're discussing what shirt he's wearing or what to have for lunch the next day and not about falling into bed the moment they're able and fucking each other senseless.

If, not when. Edward wonders who gets to decide on the conditions.

**XX**

Bella had already left when Carlisle arrives. She'd adamantly declared herself unprepared to meet a Cullen but Edward already knows that she routinely and regularly refuses to meet with clients. She'd asked for the rest of the day off and he'd granted it, surprised that she'd even ask. They both know she can come and go as she pleases, in and out of his house, his life, and now, even his dreams.

Carlisle had taken one look at the pile of repacked and remarked boxes and guessed that their combined efforts had gone to waste.

"How many days until you finish with the rest?"

"Three, four days at the most," Edward answers. "We can comb the rest closely but I doubt we'd find anything else."

"You tried," Carlisle sighs, defeated and dejected, making Edward think of giving him Phoenix. He doesn't want Carlisle to have it, as it feels like cheating. Giving him more questions hadn't been exactly what he'd asked them to do but Bella's right. It is the only foolproof data they have, and for whatever it's worth, Carlisle is entitled to it.

"There was something else...," he says and before he can regret it, Edward passes him Bella's binder.

For long minutes, there is silence as Carlisle absorbs the shock of knowing what he potentially doesn't want to know. The truth that Alice was embroiled in something violent, even sinister, long before her disappearance offers no solace. Instead, it's something that can only be regretted. Over and over.

"Do you think she suffered at the end?"

"I can't answer that." Edward hopes not. For Carlisle's sake.

The older man remains silent and Edward knows exactly what he's thinking. He's planning to assemble a team to trace back Alice's steps to Phoenix, have the hotel reinvestigated and turn hospital records upside down. He's also planning to send another team to locate Peter or Jasper Whitlock, tracing them this time from Phoenix. Edward can see a flare of hope grow inside Carlisle but he knows that they're going to run into a brick wall of nothing after a while. Just like all their previous efforts.

You're not looking at things the way they should be looked at, Edward wants to tell Carlisle, but he doesn't. The less people know what he's about to do, the better.

"I'm sorry about not telling you about the deal I made with Ms. Hale," Carlisle says suddenly, as if in an afterthought.

"That's all right," Edward answers, as graciously as he can. Knowing what the other person is going to say always helps him compose himself. "I trust that you're not going to do it again."

A few more words exchanged, idle talk, a dinner invitation extended and Carlisle is on his way back to his mansion. He's a busy man, after all, and he's got things to do. One of which is to transfer five million dollars to Edward Masen's account. He's given him something and even if that something turns out to be a dud, Carlisle doesn't renege on a deal.

After Carlisle leaves, Edward sits alone in the kitchen, considering all his options. In a few hours, he knows that he'll be a few millions richer and he can tell Rosalie to use the money for whatever she has in mind. Carlisle will be distracted enough with Phoenix not to pressure him for the rest of the job and the rest of the world will go on without paying him much attention, as it has already done for the past three months he's been in Forks, save for that particular incident with the New York Post.

He has three weeks more; a month at the most, before the authorities of upstate New York call for him and throw him in jail to serve his sentence. If that happens, he's looking at 2-3 months of inactivity and whatever trail he's managed to build will possibly fade and die.

He needs to move fast. The debris had been cleared, the path decided, and now, the real hunt begins.

Edward reaches for the piece of paper he'd left beside his computer the night before. He's certain that Bella had seen it, given her complete disregard for whatever he owns.

He puts the paper in his pocket and goes around the house, closing the windows and locking doors. He picks up a small case in his bedroom, puts in a change of clothes, his laptop and phone.

In less than ten minutes, he's out of the door and is backing out of the driveway in the borrowed Volvo, on his way to Seattle. An hour later, the trees beside the road that make Forks distinct begin to give way to stores and houses, signs and light posts, as the land becomes less mythical and more populated.

In another hour, Edward starts to hum. He gets the paper from his pocket, stares at it while he steers the wheel with one hand. Satisfied, he puts it on the seat beside him.

It really doesn't need a stretch of imagination, he thinks. Everything begins with belonging. Bella had done it, all by herself. He'd deduced how she'd done it, mulled on it for hours and came to a course of action.

Before reason takes over, before he decides how idiotic, and delusional it is, he decides to carry out what feels completely and absolutely the right thing to do. He's going to Seattle for an appointment with a certain Mr. Damon Conklin. He'd called the day before and sent his design. Mr. Conklin had assured him that he can be accommodated the very next day, even though what he wants done is a little extensive.

He glances at the paper again, reads the directions to a place scrawled below the Whitlock family crest.

Super Genius Tattoo

1017 E Pike St. Seattle, WA 98122

Before the day is over, he is going to mark himself so all would know where and to what he belongs.

**XX**

**X**

_Hope you're all not finding this too slow. :) Hurrying up as fast as I can. I hate leaving these chapters this way. Thanks for sticking with me, and leaving me reviews._

_CHAPTER 16 next WHEREIN EDWARD MAKES FIRST CONTACT_


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